


On the East of Eden

by Ivy_in_the_Garden



Series: Like a Line of Light [2]
Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Autopsies, Bisexuality, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Canon-Typical Questionable Science, Canon-Typical Violence, Existential Angst, Families of Choice, Family Drama, Homoeroticism, I REGRET NOTHING, Incest, Mild Language, Multi, Murder Mystery, Overcoming Trauma, Period Typical Attitudes, Sequel, Sexual Content, Sibling Bonding, This is basically a collection of my fav tropes, This turned into a slice of life story, Tw: antiquated notions of gender, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_in_the_Garden/pseuds/Ivy_in_the_Garden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate to regain a sense of normality in his life, Cain throws himself into solving murders, while his fragile, newfound bond with Jezabel begins to wear thin. Jezabel, meanwhile, finds himself increasingly distraught and unable to adapt to the world outside Delilah. When their bond is tested, they must decide how to negotiate the demands of family and the secret that threatens to destroy both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Dismal Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the love of Kaori Yuki, please read "Beyond the Garden" first. Because this is a sequel, and I can promise you almost none of this will make sense without reading it first. 
> 
> With that said, hi, again lovely readers. For this, you all should thank hikachu, who wanted to see more of Cain and company interacting as a family, and Cain and Jezebel solving mysteries together. When I read her review, I realized that I also wanted that in my life, and this is the result. The angsty, violent result. You all should know what I write by now.
> 
> As always, I will put a warning in the author's notes about scenes I think might be unsettling.

 

> _Cain_  

The morning paper, as always, proves an invaluable source of the latest lurid news in Her Majesty's realm. In overwrought prose, I read about a woman who drowned her three children, a strangling in Oxford, a parrot that can predict the future, an unsolved crime scene. The last report piques my interest: three members of the nobility have been found inexplicably dead, with their throats torn out. Seemingly self-inflicted. And in each case, the witnesses independently tell of a strange, almost bitter scent that lingers days after the removal of the corpses. The most recent autopsies have been inconclusive.   

I hesitate, before stowing this prospective case in my coat pocket. Although I am curious as to my brother's opinion on the matter, I cannot find it in myself to indulge my penchant for mystery-solving at a time like this. March has crept into May, and before I was aware of it all, June had arrived, the damp, unwelcome visitor that it is. The papers celebrate the anniversary of the Queen's coronation, but I think only of Riff's death. I turn over the other item delivered today, the telegraph, wondering if I should, instead, humor Mary with a visit to one of her cousins. This house reminds me of all I have lost, and I just want to forget for a while. 

A quick search for my brother finds him under the trees with Mary and Oscar. The grass is still damp from yesterday's rain, but one of the maids has wisely spread out a blanket. At one corner, Mary hums as she weaves together another daisy chain. Only a keen eye will note that the distance between her and my brother is greater than that between her and Oscar. One of her daisy chains hangs around Cassian's neck, as he occasionally nudges Jezabel's hand when he stops petting him.

I'm not convinced of the dog's identity, but I can't say I'm bothered by its presence. I still remember the day it came to stay with us at the mansion. It took me three tries to understand what my brother was going on about. From his blotchy complexion, I thought he had been crying over one of his animals: perhaps one had died—eaten by a predator, or hunted mistakenly by a villager. Instead, he told me, in breathless fragments, that Cassian had returned, that it certainly was him, there was no other explanation. The diagonal patch of fur that he eagerly pointed out was hardly convincing, but the way the puppy simply sat on its haunches, completely at ease and perhaps even a little grumpy, endeared it to me. After all the misery that this house has seen, some new life might brighten it, I reasoned.  Whether or not it is the reincarnation of Cassian, I may never know, but I will give my brother this, for it seems cruel to spoil his happiness, no matter how frail it might be.   

The night it arrived, one of the maids tried to keep it in the kitchens, but it broke free, and as if it had a magnetic draw to my brother, refused to budge from its position outside his door, like a perturbed sentinel. This continued on for several nights, until eventually, we allotted it a cushion for it to sleep on, at the foot of Jezabel's bed. Even if it is merely a dog, its presence has decreased the frequency of his night terrors, and while I miss sleeping next to my brother, I am glad that my comfort is less necessary than it used to be. 

"Here." Mary extends the finished daisy chain to Oscar, who places it next to his teacup. "Oh, no, that won't do," she continues. "You must wear it."

"Mary, men can't do that," Oscar protests. 

"Oh, but you must, if we are to be wed," Mary taunts, her eyes alight with childish amusement. 

 Oscar attempts to appeal to my brother. "Come, we men must stick together!"

 "You should listen to her," Jezabel replies, without looking up from his novel. Absentmindedly, he turns the page. "You'll never hear the end of it, if you don't."

Mary nearly laughs in approval. "Why, yes, Oscar. I shan't forget it."

Reluctantly, Oscar wears it, and although he feigns defeat, I catch his small smile at the way Mary claps her hands together in joy. I revel in her happiness for a few moments, before making my presence known. 

 "Oh, big brother!" Mary beams at me, and for a moment, I forget all my cares. "I'll make you one too."

 "My other brother-in-law!" Oscar seizes the opportunity to embrace me; I suspect him of sublimating his feelings for me into protecting Mary, but I have grown accustomed to it. I think he is lonely without Mary and me. However, his disregard for personal space irritates me, and I push him aside.

"Are you being a nuisance again?" I ask him, as I settle down beside Jezabel,

"You're terribly unfair. How is a man to win against two brothers?" 

"That's your problem, isn't it?" I smirk. I turn to my brother, and with a tone of feigned casualness, I tell him, "If Oscar gets too irritating, you can always hide his body in the shed."

 "How cruel you are," Oscar protests. He pouts, but it does not last for long: he returns to babbling about the birds nestling in a nearby tree.

My attention turns to my brother, who sets the novel down. _The Woman in White_ , I note. I haven't read it; I prefer the sordid autobiographies, the morbid crimes. Uncle Neil, mercifully, has yet to discover my collection of Jack the Ripper clippings and reports. 

 "Are you going down to London?" Jezabel asks me, carefully nonchalant.

I shake my head. "I got a telegram from one of my- _our_ cousins in Manchester." If Jezabel noticed my slight correction, he says nothing on it, and so I continue, relieved. "Rose wanted to see Mary again, and I was wondering if you wanted to come along. I could use some company."

He thinks on it a little, not entirely convinced, and so I play my ace in the hole. "Besides," I add, "I hear she has a truly magnificent collection of Arabian horses. I'm sure Aunt Margaret won't object to our taking some on a ride while the girls have their reunion."

 "Aright," he agrees, but he still seems reluctant. 

 What goes unsaid is the problem that Father has left us—the problem of living that neither my brother and I can seem to solve. The anniversary of Father and Riff's death will be among us in less than a week. Although it is not a physical entity—only attached to the purely human realm of dates—it exerts its pull on me, drawing me in like the tides: it consumes my waking hours, and I find myself more short-tempered than usual. It casts a pallor over the entire house: Mary has redoubled her efforts at cheeriness, bustling about with her ready smiles, but when she thinks herself alone, her shoulders droop from weariness and she sighs like her heart is breaking. Jezabel, on the other hand, has taken the opposite approach, and has refused twice now in the past few days to come down for dinner, opting instead to brood alone, despite my insistence that starving himself would only worry Uncle Neil and me. Part of me fears that this is the prelude to a melancholy that will never lift, despite my efforts. Sometimes, I catch Jezabel simply staring out the windows, as expressionless as one of Mary's dolls, or reading words that do not register with him, for he'll read the same page several times. And I, I cannot bear to think on all I have lost, so I will lose myself in the little affairs of Mary, until the week has passed and the curse lifted. Perhaps it is unfair to Riff, to not mark his passing, but the weight his death left is so heavy that I fear it will suffocate the last of my will.

Perhaps a trip to Manchester will suffice to take our minds off the anniversary. 

* * *

 

> _Jezabel_

Much of the carriage ride is spent listening to Mary prattle on about her cousin Rose, but as the land passes by, all I can think on is Father's words:  _And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden._ Is this, then, Nod? Cain's land, to live out the rest of his days? As hard as I try, this is not my country, for even among the family, I am marked. I am the one most intertwined with Father, even now. Do I have a country, or am I truly the one in exile? After all, I am the one, not Cain, who has eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and whose eyes are opened, irrevocably. As much as I try to put the past aside, I find that it has a way of getting loose, bleeding into the present.

Perhaps this entire affair is a Gordian knot, impossible to untangle. But how, then, do I sever myself from Father, when I cannot determine which parts are mine and which are borne of his hand? Should I just arbitrarily decide then, what belongs to whom? But that is a useless endeavor, for I cannot find my way back to the garden, back to a state free of sin. These fragments Father left will have to suffice, but I cannot seem to make them into something viable. Even now, with the passage of time, that age-old remedy for every ill, I am still lacking something that I fear—or, perhaps, know—cannot be returned to me. 

There always remains a distance between the world and I, that I neither cannot bridge nor erase. Often, I feel as if I am merely playing charades with the others, pretending at being whole. A masquerade, then, that only I am aware of. Often, I think the world has moved on without me, while I arrange and re-arrange the pieces that are left of me. Trying to find the solution that may not even exist. 

 Mary interrupts my thoughts. "Don't you want lunch?" She offers me a wrapped sandwich, with her impossibly tiny hands. "Anna made sure there was one without any meat."

I shake my head. "Perhaps later."

Cain, unfortunately, recognizes my strategy. "You really should."

A conflict within me ensues, between the rational, coldly logical part that doubts he means any harm and the terror of my instincts that tell me that his insistence signifies that this is a trap. 

Mary picks precisely the wrong time to press on. "You'll get sick if you don't eat." 

 My pulse starts to race again. My first impulse is to bolt, but I'm trapped here in the carriage, with these people who do not understand the sense of helplessness that comes from being controlled from the inside. 

"No," I reply, a little more harshly than I intended, as I unconsciously move closer to the door. 

Confusion and worry register on her face, and under that is that ever-present fear that I inspire in her. At the sight, I want to hit her so badly, to strike the childish concern straight off her face. Her cornflower-blue eyes, full of innocence and possibility and sadness, sicken me. Her thoughts are as clear as if she had spoken them; street-child that she is, she cannot fathom how someone would willingly refuse to eat, would willingly do what I have done. Although Cain tries to keep her unaware of the going-ons in the house, she is hardly a dull child. Unwise at times, but terribly clever. I would not be surprised if this is her childish attempt to remedy the situation—to appeal to a vestige of affection she hopes I have for her.

She is terribly wrong on that account. I care little for her, as I see in her only another filthy human who will despoil the natural world. Had things been different, I might have come to see her as a substitute for my sisters, but I cannot erase the fear she has of me, and she cannot undo what Father has wrought with her soft, careful words. 

Over Cain's warning look, Oscar immediately intervenes, in that joking manner of his. (I wonder if he has ever taken anything seriously in his life.) "Come now, you'll just make her worry, and we can't have that."

Of course not. Mary's innocence is paramount to anything else. The glass fantasy she lives in must be preserved, even when the dream has long since ended. If Cain were honest with himself, he would have realized that his coddling does her no justice.  But, I suppose, he is only trying to give her what he never had—at my expense. Always my expense. And suddenly, throwing myself out of the moving carriage seems perfectly reasonable.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Cain takes notice of my state. "Later," he concedes, quietly, knowing that I was merely stalling. The note of disappointment in his voice wounds me, wounds the part of me that cannot refrain from trying to please, no matter the cost.  

An uncomfortable silence lapses amongst us: an unpleasant brew of fear and unease. Mary alternates between watching Cain and I, eyes large from worry. Peeking out from under her sun-bonnet, as if she wants nothing more than to hide; Oscar tries to distract her with an anecdote, but there is a pause in her smiles and haughty remarks. 

Cassian jumps onto my lap, no doubt a gesture meant to soothe, but I push him aside, gently but firmly. I don't want his pity. The wounded look he gives me, ears lowered, as he retreats next to Mary, almost brings me to tears, and so I stare out the window, unable to meet his gaze. Trying to keep myself from trembling with an overwhelming sense of shame at my inability to adjust to this new world—to live without Father. Repressing the urge to break something— _anything_ —I cross my arms against the disappointment and fear from my companions.  I don't know why they expected anything different from me; I'm not any different. I'm just as ugly inside as I have always been.

Anger comes over me, at Cain's decision to not allow me to grieve alone on the anniversary of Father's death, at Oscar's feigned concern, anger at Mary's lack of tacit. But most of all, I am angry with myself—I am the one out of place. 

* * *

 

> _Cain_

The Carlyle residence has always been a little overstuffed, even by the standards of the aristocracy, and as I navigate through plumes of flowers and silver trinkets, I mentally prepare myself for tonight's affair. Having been isolated from my extended family for most of my life, I still find visiting them a little unnerving, knowing my reputation—and the cursed blood in my veins. Still, I cannot let Father keep me from my family. He cannot have this. Rose is pleasant enough to me, but she cannot disguise her love for Mary; despite my happiness that Mary has been accepted so warmly in spite of her birth, I find myself battling the ranklings of jealousy that she has it so easy when I must prove myself again and again. 

As the day carries on into evening, Mary is put to bed, against her protests that she is old enough to attend.  A deeply bored sigh comes from Cassian, as he lies down under the piano bench. My brother has not adopted his typical vacant stare, but rather keeps twisting a corner of his coat, irritation on his face. Well, I can handle that. I carefully slip my hand over his, to reassure him, but as soon as I make contact, he jerks his hand away and turns away from me. Well then. I cannot keep a small wave of annoyance from coming over me. If he wants to act like an angry, spoiled child after all we have been through, then he can do so alone.   

While I wish Mary had not pressed him, I wish he could understand that she did so out of love, not malice. It is not fair to make her worry, when she has already been through so much. Why does he feel entitled to act as though he is the only one affected by the anniversary? I have spent the past few nights unable to sleep under the covers because their heaviness reminds me of Father's weight, on those nights when the whippings did not suffice. It is such a strange thing, when ordinary, insignificant details begin to take on a life of their own. Blankets, roses, phrases. The way the morning light falls through the space Riff has left. It is as though my grief has taken a life of its own, somehow, demanding to be known.

Part of me wants to commiserate with Jezabel, to see if I am not alone in this feelings, given that he is the only other one left of my past, but the other part is, strangely enough, hurt that he refused my comfort. And I wonder if Riff ever felt this way with me: upset that I cannot trust so easily, after all these years, and guilt over his death drags at me again. Perhaps I am asking an impossible feat of my brother, but I cannot bear to be alone with my thoughts at such a time. If I am honest, I want someone to take Riff's place again: to take care of me and the household. To accompany me and to give me respite, no matter how brief.  Instead, I find myself helpless again, and too weary to deal with what will no doubt become another slide into the fog.  

 The guests begin to trickle in. Lord Pendleton, one of Father's associates, briefly discusses with me some of Father's business interests in coal, and uncomfortable, I find myself longing to escape. 

I remember how Riff used to make a cage out of his arms for my fearful bird of a heart, and I long for the past again. To be cradled in certainty. But I could not ask it of Jezabel, to be Riff's substitute, when I am the only one keeping him from the abyss of his own mind. 

Frustration and perhaps even resentment seem to govern our relationship, as of late. I cannot deny that I am upset with him, for retreating to his old ways of pushing everyone away, in the hopes that isolation will improve the situation. 

It might be a trick of the time, but I find myself longing for the past when I could let another shoulder my burdens, instead of carrying the weight of two. If I have never had a childhood, I also seem to have skipped over the carefree days of early adulthood.

Spotting my brother, I weave around Lady Jane, preoccupied with a painting. She gives me a look as if longing to say something to me, but I am not in the mood to hear yet another admission of love. It nearly bores me, to have women throw themselves at me, for the face I wear, for my inheritance, for my title. 

Away from prying ears, I stop him. "Do eat something," I say wearily. "You're being very selfish."

Jezabel gives me a long, cold look. "It is none of your concern."

"You act as though you are the only one who suffers around here." As the words fall, I immediately long to take them back. Weariness has made me harsher than I am, and his momentary, wide-eyed look of hurt pains me. In that moment, fear rules me: fear that I have damaged our relationship beyond repair, that I have pushed him too hard and he will lash out at me. And then his expression abruptly vanishes, replaced by one of petulance, and relief rushes over me. 

He fumbles for an adequate retort, and finding none, storms off. 

* * *

 Jezabel spends the entire dinner pointedly ignoring me—a considerable feat considering that we are seated next to each other. I meet his childishness with some of my own. Unlike Riff, however, he pretends not to care, as the woman next to me, a daughter of some earl, grows increasingly flustered at my flirtations. He, in return, puts on a facade of sweet earnestness and naivety, entertaining Rose with what must be the highlights of his medical endeavors. I notice that he is omitting the disturbing parts and modifying it into the travels of a country doctor, when it ought to be something akin to a penny dreadful.  

Annoyed, I return to my neighbor, speaking loud enough that he can hear me as well. "Do tell, what phase is the moon in tonight?"

"A new moon, I think ," she replies, perplexed at my question. "Yes, it must be."

I feign an exhale of worry. "How dreadful. That's when the inccubi come out." Although Jezabel maintains his charming act with considerable skill, I notice him briefly raise an incredulous eyebrow. Encouraged, I continue. "You must be careful: the incubi love to feed on the souls of pretty maidens." It's a line I have used on another girl, but this one's eyes light up all the same. Jezabel, on the other hand, chokes on his wine. 

Pleased that I have broken through his resolve, I pass the rest of the meal driving my neighbor mad with little hints, and have almost grown bored of the entire affair, when the group decides to divide up along gender lines. As I depart to the smoking room with the men, I give her a seductive smile, making sure that my brother notices. He, however, still makes no remark on it, and I consider bedding her, just to get a rise out of him.  It wouldn't be the first time I used that particular tactic of revenge, although that place of honor used to belong to Riff. 

 Soon, the air fills with pipe smoke and laughter, as Lord Gilroy relates the highlights of his hunting trip abroad. I catch Jezabel's distaste when the deer in the story is finally slaughtered—to roars of approval. His hand tightens around the stem of his glass, and for a moment, pity comes over me. Although hunting is a favorite pastime of the aristocracy, I have not indulged in it precisely for his sake, and because that I find no  pleasure in seeing the hounds rend some fox into pieces. The odds seem unfair, somehow. 

The group disperses for some fresh air, and I have begun to make my way over to Jezabel, who, by now, has progressed to glaring at Lord Gilroy, when I hear a shriek from the drawing room. Rushing to the source, I find Lady Jane, pale and trembling. She clasps a hand to her mouth.

"Oh, it's dreadful," she stammers. "Don't look."    

Sprawled across the balcony is Lord Pendleton. His throat opened, and a scent of bitter almonds lingering in the evening air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "The Hunting of the Snark": "The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark, / Protested, with tears in its eyes, / That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark / Could atone for that dismal surprise!"  
> Writing a sequel is bizarrely challenging in that I didn't intend to write a sequel, so I tried to wrap up all the plot lines as tightly as I could. Which proved interesting, when I was constructing a new outline. So, this is my homage to the convoluted mysteries that Kaori Yuki writes. This one is based on the nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark".  
> And in honor of the fact that canon Alexis keeps mixing up his bible stories, I had Jezabel also confuse the stories of Adam, Eve and their children.


	2. Autopsies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, lovely readers. It's wild mystery time.  
> And as always, if you see something grammatically off, let me know. I always appreciate it. I'm also not a Victorianist, nor am I a biologist. I just pretend to be. ;)

> _Jezabel_

Cain rushes to the corpse, in that characteristic, foolhardy fashion of his, and I take my leave of the matter. I have little desire to deal with Scotland Yard right now, nor do I feel particularity inclined to humoring Cain with yet another investigation. Hardly caring how suspicious my absence will be, I escape to another room, far away from the screams and commotion. That horrible man's tale of blood sport has made me sick; I can hardly force back the terror that that innocent must have felt. But I forget myself—this is how the nobility amuses itself.

Still, I cannot shake the feeling that I know him from somewhere; a half-memory tugs at me, but it falls like water through my hands. And still I wonder if it is within my power to simply ensure an accident for him. A slip in the dark. Cut brakes. A fall from his horse. All perfectly tragic acts of God. What a shame. What a loss.

A terrarium, tucked away in the darkened room, catches my eye. Against the glass, tiny plants, paper butterflies, and cold ponds make a perfect microcosm of God's divine order. (But where do I fit within that order? I am still a murderer, with my father's blood on my hands, and the blood of a thousand animals.) And in that perfect order, a longing for Father strikes me again, a sudden pang; his love was a constant fire. If I touched it, I could only blame myself for my impetuousness. And yet, in its radiant destruction, it begged to be touched. I am not supposed to long for such a love, but I do, for I have not changed. I will always be half in love with him, I fear. I have a half a mind to get up to some foolishness with another man, just to let him use me badly, if only because it will bring me closer to that fire. (Such men are easily procured. Too easily.)

And yet, this love that I cannot abandon now co-exists with what Cain has given me. He is a variable that I cannot solve, for even as I see the workings of Father in his posture, his carelessly ruffled hair, the tilt of his porcelain jaw, he stays within a role that no one can fault him for. I, on the other hand, only wait for a question that has already been answered. Sometimes, I think it is caught in his throat, like a snare, like a stone. A stone that will weigh both of us down. Some days, I wonder if it would be easier just to weigh down my pockets with stones than endure such a trial.

I had hoped that time might have returned, or at least softened, my heart, that if I would only wait, then I should find everything restored. What a foolish thought. A space still remains there, the most important piece taken away. I cannot bridge the distance between what I am and what I might be.

Mary grows older, into an unchild, while Cain gradually takes on Father's form, line by line—and I? I am unchanging. Perhaps it is by my own hand, my hesitations conspiring against me, but I no longer care. I cannot decide what to do in Father's absence. Cain has given me a life that many men would not be dissatisfied with, but one devoid of a purpose. Do I take my duty towards him as my new purpose? We are undeniably close, perhaps closer than is proper, but in due time, he will inherit a new life, one of small governing and small concerns, and I will be alone again. 

(There is another thought that accompanying this one, but I cannot bear it. It is too terrible an outcome, I fear.) 

"Jezabel?" My blood runs cold, as Father—unmistakably Father—calls out to me again. "Jezabel? Where are you?" 

I clutch the windowsil, half afraid that Father has returned to punish me from my failings, and half elated to know him again. I cannot decide whether or not to throw myself out the window, or face him and repent of my sins. I will never leave him if I see him again, and for some reason, the knowledge of that certainty pains me.  Footsteps resound behind the door—my heart stills from fear.  He has come to finish what he began—come to take everything away. It is not a question of how Father has been made flesh again, but an inevitability. Father is beyond the bonds of the flesh, a constant in this world of blood and terror. It has only been a matter of time before he exacted his judgement.  The rational part of me argues for something more sinister, a fractured mind, but this is so terribly real.  

It must be real.

 "Jezabel?" Again, Father. His voice is closer now, to my left this time, instead from behind the shelves. "Jezabel, it's not like you to keep me waiting."

 He is here, I am certain of it. It's too late, and I cannot decide—fear has turned my mind to water. It's too late, and Cassian is bleeding in front of me, and my sisters writhe in their own intestines. It's too late, and I am bound to the man whose love will destroy me, and my hesitation has ruined any chance of escape. It's too late, and— 

 "Jezabel?"

Candlelight awakens the room, but I see only Cain, all boyish excitement. It requires all my effort not to slump onto the floor, and I barely conceal my trembling. I cannot suppress an exhale of relief at what is distinctly Cain's voice. Unmistakably Cain's. He gives me a strange look at my state, and I pray that he chalks it up to the aftereffects of that horrible man's story. Although concern briefly shows on his face, he quickly abandons it, in that joyfully flustered state that only a murder can evoke.

"I've been looking all over for you," he begins, launching into a breathless retelling, but none of his words register with me. Instead I cannot recall now if the voice was really Father's or Cain's. Did I confuse the two? I never have before. Was Father truly here or—my blood runs cold as I consider the other option, having ruled out the presence of another person in the room, for I saw no one. Delusions. Madness. An abrupt decline.

Noticing my lack of engagement, Cain regards me closely. "Is everything alright?"

I hesitate. If I tell him, then there will be talk I don't want. Talk of madness and sin. And—

(Delusions.) 

I disguise my fear with petulance. "Awfully convenient of you to care now," I retort.

"Oh," he says, drawing back in surprise. A haughty stare then graces his features; despite myself, I am immensely annoyed that it only strengthens his beauty. "I suppose you're still upset with me."

I only cross my arms in response, refusing to look at him any more. I am almost beginning to persuade myself into a state of anger. Good. It will be better for both of us if he thinks that. And I cannot deny that I still entertain the ranklings of anger over his little charade. 

"Oh, do come to your senses," Cain continues. "Brothers quarrel, but they never mean anything by it."

I give him a cold stare—one of my best, usually reserved for Cassandra's propositions. 

"Oh, do come on." He acts like a small child now, frustrated with my sulkiness. "There's a murder afoot. A _ghastly_ murder. How can you just stand there when we have records to pull and suspects to charm?" Retrieving a small vial from his pocket, he shakes it slightly so that its contents—coagulated blood, most likely—shift. "And tests to run."

While I cannot deny that particular appeal of making the body yield its secrets in the way that only I can, I cannot placate my anger towards him for his most infuriating behavior at dinner. "The last time, you got yourself shot," I point out, coldly. "In the shoulder." 

Cain shrugs. "An occupational hazard."

 "You're so careless." I find a perverse comfort in my anger, as it will raise fewer questions than fear, and give into it. "You're the selfish one here. You fly from crime to crime, if only because it will distract you. You crave that sensation of setting things to right, even though, even though—" Even though neither of us can set anything to right. I can only watch as the tides take back the little house on the sand that I cannot call my own. My hands grip the window ledge, tendons rigid with tension. 

Something (melancholy, disappointment?) moves across his face. "Maybe I have been selfish to ask this of you."

And that note of quiet sadness drives me into a panic—not out of empathy but the realization that he wanted to be with me, that he was looking forward to it, even. I cannot bear that: if I become too accustomed to his presence, he will be taken away, even if Father is not around to make good on his word. It will happen, somehow. (Maybe next time, it will be a critical vein, or a lung—or the brain.) Everything has an end. 

Confusion registers on his face, and he fumbles for the words he won't say, because he knows, as I do, that only children believe those words. He remains there, in a state of inaction, his fingers wringing out the words he can't bring himself to say. (And for a moment, Father stands before me, bloody and amused. "What am I to do with you?")

What a pathetic pair we make. Both enslaved by the past.

This paradoxical urge to push him away, even as I want him closer, resurfaces, and it occurs to me just how easy it is to provoke the dreaded end into existence. As easy as a few nasty, unspeakable words. But do I dare ruin this? Or by doing so, do I escape the inevitable reveal that his brotherly affection was all a show, meant to confound and entrap? Merely a trick of the light and just as substantial?

I can hardly breathe now.  I force my lungs to work, but the air seems to have thickened into a consistency not unlike treacle. And for a moment, I am seized with the sudden fear that my lungs are filling with liquid again, like they did when I was still alive and did not know what had become of my sisters. (Why does this fear bother me now, when it would have been welcomed earlier?) I struggle vainly for a few minutes. 

When my breath has steadied again, I find that Cain's hand now rests next to mine, as if he is fearful that I will reject him again. What a strange relationship we have. I had never thought him the type to care deeply about anyone besides himself—and his dead servant—but now, finding myself within his inner circle, there's almost a bit of an abandoned child to him, forever searching for the love that Father should have given him, had Father been a different man. When I am angry with him, that trait is pathetic, weak, and juvenile, but when I know a certain peace, it feels almost sad, perhaps even a little recognizable, and I do not dwell on it for long. 

(I wonder, not for the first time, what he must think of me. I am no replacement for Riff, nor I am an adequate brother of any sort. I've spent so much time alone and apart, with Father, with Delilah, with the corpses, that I am not sure how one acts within a family. There are roles, I am certain of this, but I do not fit any of them.) 

His mouth opens, full of questions he won't ask, questions with deep, bloody roots, questions that are too heavy and too much to bear, when he reconsiders and puts them aside. His fingers curl on the ledge, as if he wants to clasp my hand, but I know he won't without my say. He watches me, hesitating. Aware that what we have is only glass. Still glass, after so much time.  

"Do you think it was Delilah?" he asks, quietly, so that only I can hear. Even though we are alone. Perhaps, he fears that Father might have been resurrected. 

I shake my head. "It's far too clumsy of a murder."

He raises an eyebrow in jest. "Clumsy? That's a strong judgement on your part."

Against my resolve, I laugh a little. "It is remarkably clumsy. And badly covered up."  

Cain smirks. "You ought to know."  

The moonlight falls across his face, competing with the shadows of shivering leaves, and the sight bewitches me. I had often heard that he possessed an otherworldly beauty, not quite human in its sharp elegance.

"I can't run the blood analysis myself," he begins carefully. "And I hate to think what else I have overlooked." 

I sigh, recognizing that I have been a victim of his charms. "You're luckier than you deserve." Still, my acquiescence does not come without a price, as brother dearest will soon learn. 

"I know," he replies.  Still that insufferable smirk, as he retrieves his ace in the hole—a small green feather. "There's a bird involved." 

"A parrot."

My hand instinctively goes towards the bread I keep on me, just in case I run into some of God's creatures, and Cain nearly laughs. "Jezabel, this is why we can't find you a valet. You keep enough bread on you to feed a small battalion of geese."

 "Better to be prepared, than not."

"Indeed," Cain agrees, only half serious. Only those eyes reminding me that it is not Father who stands before me. A little chill runs down my back at the prospect that one day, he will wear Father's face. Will I, then, find myself unable to leave him, even if I summoned the will to? Already, distinguishing between him and Father has proven difficult. Was that his voice I mistook for Father? Or was it Father's? I am not so certain anymore.

I set aside my foolish thoughts, but my heart does not. 

* * *

>   _Cain_

The guests depart the next morning, equally shocked and appalled at recent events. I hardly have a moment to myself, to prepare for the day's investigations, before Mary corners me in the hallway, her little arms crossed in annoyance. Still, even her frustration with me proves endearing. 

"Big Brother," she begins in that telltale tone, "am I correct in the knowledge that a murder has taken place on _these very premises_?"

Reluctantly, I nod. "It's quite unfortunate."

 "Oh, I knew it! Who do you think it was?" From the depths of her lacy pockets, she retrieves a magnifying glass. "I'll help you look for clues! I read a lot of Sherlock Holmes. We just have to look in the vents, or on the cuffs, or—" Her face falls when I shake my head at her enthusiasm. "Oh, Big Brother," she whines. "I'm so bored already."

I shake my head. "No. It's too dangerous for a child."

First, an willful retort forms on her lips, unvoiced, and then an unbearable sadness moves across her face; she looks at me as if she is seeing me for the first time. As if there is some distance she cannot bridge. As if she has realized that she is the one consigned to waiting faithfully—the one left behind. Too dear to risk and therefore left in the cabinet to watch the rest of the world carry on. It almost breaks my resolve, to see her so.

"I'll bring you back a doll," I promise, but that does not alleviate her state.

She hesitates, wringing her hands. "Just swear you'll return."

"Of course."

 She gives me a long, searching look, as if she knows something I do not. "You wouldn't leave me, right?"

"Never." I hold  her close to me, suddenly afraid of losing her again. "I will always come back."

"You must be careful," she whispers. "Oh, do be careful."

"I'll have Jezabel with me."

At her worried expression, I realize that he is the source of her fears. I exhale a breath of worry. "You have nothing to fear. I'll tell you everything when you're older." My words ring false, as I know that I entertain those same fears.

"I'm a year older," she protests. "I am a part of this family as well, and it seems unfair that you should keep such a secret from me."

"I'll tell you when you are a great lady, with a beautiful house of her own." I make sure to keep my voice light. 

 Frustration replaces fear on her face. "I'm not a child anymore." 

"Of course not." I soften. "Go spend some time with Cousin Rose. It's not good for you to be constantly surrounded by men."

Recognizing that her cause is lost, at least for today, Mary reluctantly trudges towards the drawing room, her arms held close in worried contemplation. A final, long look before she retreats, as she is trying to remember every detail of my face. 

It unnerves me to see her so upset, but I say nothing on it. I quietly curse myself for not providing her with a better upbringing. In seven years, she will be presented at court, eligible for marriage, and yet I fear that she will be an outcast, a black sheep, with her morbid interests and melancholy tendencies.  

My heart heavy, I slip into the hallway, where the only telephone is located. Although the Hargreaves manor has one, such devices are relatively uncommon, so I was surprised to learn that Cousin Rose had one installed. It, I suppose, is a sign of modernity, yet another indication of the Age of Progress that we live in, but it only reminds me of Riff. How he would telephone the hospital to obtain medical records or make arrangements. And I am struck by the overwhelming loss that Riff's death has left me.

I can no longer recall his voice, its mellifluous tones. Only the sensation of love and security remains, and I am beside myself with grief. That I, of all people, should lose my only protector seems too cruel a fate. I want nothing more than to preserve his memory, but my wishes fall on the deaf ears of God. I collect myself, shakily, because I have no other option; I must carry on. The morning light on the pictures blinds me in my grief, and I steady myself near the telephone.

Listening to my brother make calls is always a strange affair. He slips so easily into another persona, that for a moment, I forget what he is really like. All sweet earnestness and concern. Sometimes, I wonder if this is his real personality and the other one merely a guise, but then I am not so sure. Perhaps his acting is only his guess of what he would have been, had Father not had a thousand plans. 

It strikes me as painfully sad. 

"Yes, Doctor Anderson,  it's Doctor Hathaway." Jezabel surveys me coldly, deciding on a plan, and with a sinking heart, I know he is about to exact revenge on me, in his own petty way. "Yes, my assistant—Dorian—could use some practice, and I hear you have Lord Pendleton's autopsy."  

I panic a little, knowing only what I have gleaned from Riff's textbooks, but surely I can pass as knowledgeable, if only for an hour. No doubt, they will content themselves with small talk, maybe a brief show of my learning, and then complete the autopsy themselves. Surely my brother cannot be so vindictive as to botch an autopsy just to prove a point.  

As Jezabel lapses into an attentive silence, the morning light catches itself in his hair. From a distance, it all appears to be equally greyed, but up close, dark grey blends with ash, and even perhaps a bit of blond. He gives me a questioning glance at my lingering stare, and I shrug, diverting my attention to less complicated matters. The murder, for instances. That promises a satisfying diversion.  

"Five o'clock," he announces to me, hanging up the phone. "You'll be doing the majority of the autopsy."

"What? I haven't the slightest idea how!"

 He smiles nastily. "How unfortunate."

The carriage ride is spent trying to teach me anatomy, but years of practice cannot be done in a matter of hours, and I enter the morgue with only the barest notion of how to hold a scalpel without injuring myself.

Perhaps, Jezabel actually won't go through with his petty plan, having already humiliated me with my lack of understanding in the carriage. Surely, there must be some vestige of professionalism that demands that a job be done well. 

 I shake hands with the other doctor, a pleasant fellow about my brother's age. I wonder if they went to medical school together. Then again, the fact that he used an alias suggests that they did not. There is so much in Jezabel's past that I am not privy to, and for some reason, that pains me. At the sight of the corpse, however, my thoughts turn to the task at hand. Donning the heavy apron, as coarse as a butcher's smock, I steel myself, all the while praying my brother comes to his senses before I ruin any chance of gathering evidence. 

A certain calm comes over my brother, at the familiar world of medical science, a pleasant change from the unexplained agitation of last night, but, being confronted with the impossible task of feigning experience, I do not contemplate it for long. Jezabel opens the corpse with three lazy incisions, forming an inverted 'Y', and then takes a seat next to the other doctor, a darkly satisfied cast to his demeanor. Left alone, I fumble with the tools, aware that my performance is being judged, and begin my grotesque task. Given that the liver processes the body's toxins, I decide to start there, peeling back the cold skin. 

 "He's quite green at this," Doctor Anderson remarks, slight worry on his face.

"Very," Jezabel replies with the faintest of smirks. 

I fake an abashed smile, knowing that this is Jezabel's way of getting revenge on me for my conduct at the dinner. On one hand, I am quite pleased that it affected him so; on the other, I do not relish being elbow-deep in a corpse, with very little direction. From here, everything looks the same—all discolored muck. I struggle for a few more minutes, wondering if I have uncovered the liver yet, and Jezabel finally tells me to check the stomach in a slightly bored tone. Another few minutes pass in agony, as concerned whispers about my ineptness hang in the air. 

 Jezabel finally sends the other doctor away with a promise of filling out the report himself, and with a self-satisfied smile, he joins me at the autopsy table.

"This," he says as he points to an indistinguishable, slimy organ to the left of my hand, "is the stomach." He slits it open carelessly, as if by rote, and I almost vomit to watch it spill open. Unaffected, he delicately removes a sodden piece of the stomach, examining it in the light. I am beginning to become irked with his sudden change into tight-lipped mystery, when I recognize the faintest of lines of the piece. The veins of a leaf. 

  "Someone poisoned him with a derivative of cyanide." My mind spins furiously, as we return to familiar ground. "A plant. White clover. Cassava root. That accounts for the bitter almond scent."

 Jezabel shakes his head, before resuming his grisly tour of the stomach contents. "This is not a poisoning, with cyanide or otherwise. The body would present differently." He frowns, as he begins to play with the ends of his hair, deep in thought. Bending then around his fingers, and streaking them with dark, shiny clots. It's half mesmerizing, and half nauseating to watch. 

"This is not the cause of death, but then why go to the effort of pretending to poison him by faking the smell?" he continues. "I suppose the answer must lie in an analysis of his blood, then. It's a sloppy murder, to say the least."

"An amateur, then?" 

He muses a little more. "Get a dish to preserve the sample. We'll need to determine its origins."

I stare at him, perplexed. "A plate?"

"A _petri_ dish." A note of frustration creeps into his voice. 

And I am struck with the understanding of just how different our worlds are. Only the circumstances of our birth separates us, but a chasm divides our respective experiences. The sensation of being trapped within my own skin, my own bones, my own mind, returns to me: am I to find no common ground with my blood kin? We are separate beings, true, but to be denied the  closeness that I long for, especially now, seems unbearable.

While I fumble with the glass, Jezabel quickly fills out a form, listing the cause of death as ex-sanguination.

I frown at this, pocketing our illicit sample. "Not poison?"

'No," he replies in that vague tone that signifies that he is deep in thought. "It's such a strange death. And yet—" 

Silence falls between us again, as we tidy up the room. Jezabel abandons the bloody instruments in the metal basin, and I have just removed my gloves when I catch the dried blood in his hair. An almost paternal sensation comes over me. 

"Here." I offer him a washcloth. "You'll want to fix that before we leave."

He accepts it wordlessly, although a slight surprise shows. Perhaps he thought that I might reciprocate his petty revenge with some malice of my own. 

"Are we done with this pettiness?" I ask, throwing my apron back into the musty closet. "I still have to tell you about the interviews." 

He sighs. "For now. That was a terrible line to use on a woman. Incubi indeed. Why not bring up vampires next."

I smile. "Perhaps I will," I reply, reveling in his exasperation. 

Yes, I am glad to no longer be at war with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you all remember the parrot at the beginning? I hope you did, because we'll be meeting it next chapter. I regret absolutely nothing. This going to be a wild ride, folks.  
> Also, I live for Jezabel and Cain bickering. Just saying.  
> As always, my eternal thanks and gratitude for continuing to read. I'm humbled and honored.


	3. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did make changes to the previous chapters, to fix some of the choppiness and some more of the extremely questionable science that I really don't have excuses for.  
> With that said, warning for questionable science, which will hold for the rest of the fic. Still not a biologist, I just watch a lot of House, MD. ;)  
> At this point, you may or may not be wondering about the family time to mystery ratio. The mystery is secondary to family time, because I have been wanting these people to be a family for a while now. I'd say that they've suffered enough, but I'm a big fan of hurt/comfort.  
> So this is a super long chapter. I toyed with the idea of cutting Cain's section and sticking it in the next chapter, but then I remembered that I promised you all the parrot this chapter, and a lady keeps her promises. ;) And also, there's some unsettling imagery in this chapter.

 

> _Mary_

Even though I am home again _,_ I can't bury my spiraling fears that Big Brother will leave me. I leaf through Riff's old textbook, where I have kept my pressed flowers, but it brings me no comfort, not this time. One day—I am certain of this—Big Brother will not come back, and I will have to make do with memories. My hand hovers over the tarot deck, as I contemplate the dilemma of knowing. They only speak truly when I am heartbroken. If I knew what was to occur, then I could amend it, soften the blow somehow. Is that not part and parcel of being a woman?  

I do not want to know. Not this time.

But to do nothing is unbearable, and so, I take up my sewing basket. Rummaging around until I find the leftover fabric. A light blue cotton, ringed with darker flowers. Daisies, I think, although the print is almost too tiny to be certain. The needle threads easily, and a gladiolus soon frames one corner, as I work quietly into the night. The steady advance of the stitch, my only clock. By the time the stolen candle has dimmed, almost slipping into slumber, my work has been finished. My fingers sore. Then I seal the flat flowers into the newly sewn pouches, accompanied only by my wishes and thread.

From the noise in the hall, I know that Big Brother and the Doctor have returned, from one of their many trips, and I cannot contain my envy at their apparent freedom, while I remain a caged bird. His return fails to assuage my fears, although I cannot deny my gladness that such time has not yet arrived. 

Big Brother and I will never again have the closeness that we once had, before the Doctor, and that loss weighs down my heart. Somehow, they understand each other in a way that I cannot. I want to be there for Big Brother, but I do not know how. And the loss of Riff has awakened a terrible fear in me; the knowledge that Big Brother will die one day and leave me alone, without a family. (As Mother did.) Behind my eyelids, he dies a thousand deaths, and always the emptiness overtakes me, for one of this deaths will be his. Merely showing myself every possibility does not staunch my worries. 

I wait until I am certain they must have fallen asleep, before setting out. 

Big Brother's gift is easily given, for I know his room by the way he has carelessly discarded his clothes on the back of a chair. There is blood on his cuffs, and I pray that it does not belong to him.

The day he came back, a bullet in the shoulder, I thought he might have wanted to see Riff again, that that might be the cause of his carelessness. Big Brother wants to pretend that I have known only milk and honey, but I lived on my own for too long. I have seen how tight the noose can get. Leroy lost his father to a train, and I have never forgotten how the whistling of the engine, so joyful and thrilling to me, would darken his eyes. I wonder, not for the first time, what has become of him? Big Brother says that he has made a good life for himself, but still I wonder.   

 I tuck the tiny pouch into this coat pocket, leaving my wishes with it. Praying that it will protect him in the way that I cannot. 

I deny the dread in my heart, as I contemplate my next task; I hold myself as bravely as I can muster. Thinking of Esther, in all her bravery, and my heart quietens in my resolve. Turning over the tiny pouch, large enough for a handful of pins, I cast a keen eye over my handiwork: a star of Bethlehem, unfolding in the center. Its white, narrow petals came easily to my needle, but the memories prove difficult to overcome. In the crossed lines is the bareness of my heart, my wish for what I should have had. The words I cannot say lie bound up in the flower, the only way I can communicate. Or perhaps, the only way I am allowed.

(I close my eyes against the memory of blood on the glass. The sweetness of chloroform. A thousand gasping shards. Two deep holes in Drew's head, and one in mine that I have yet to fill. I suspect I never will.)

Still, a lady is gracious and kind and forgiving—particularly to her own kin. And I am well aware that my forgiveness entails a demand of its own, one more powerful than hatred, for I alone decide when penitence is done. In time, my heart may give into love of a cautious, reserved nature, but for now, my heart still rings with terror, albeit muted. If only I knew what Big Brother was keeping from me, then I could set this to right.

 Animated speech comes through the door, as solid as it is, and I listen in on the sordid details—blood samples and autopsies and the scarcity of some chemical with a name a bit too long to remember. I suppose he must be consulting with Cassian, and it requires all my will to knock. The chatter dies away, and I take that as my cue, painfully aware that I am an intruder. The Doctor gives me a questioning glance, and in that, I remember Drew's ruined face.

 _Be brave_ , I urge myself. _Be brave for Drew_. I tell myself that I no longer harbor any fear of him, but the weakness in my legs betrays me. I want to flee into Big Brother's arms, but this is something only I can do. Keeping my distance, I crouch beside Cassian, who regards me, not unkindly, with a sleepy stare. "This is for the Doctor," I tell him, placing my offering beside him. "Mother told me that lavender keeps the bad memories away." 

My heart thunders in fear, and I comfort myself by petting Cassian. His fur has grown coarse: no longer the soft coat of a puppy. We are both older now, it seems. 

A slight confusion registers on the Doctor's face, as if he cannot understand my actions. Pity comes over me. How sad it must be, to be unable to distinguish what is given in kindness from what is not. A new resolve comes over me.  Perhaps, like in my fairy stories, kindness will change everything into what it ought to be—and I'll have a family again. 

(Drew's ruined face reminds me of just what a naive notion that is. My heart leaps in terror, as I remember just how close those _things,_ those horrid things, were to me.)

 Still, I wonder what he is up to, with all those vials laid out. A sea of colors that only he can read. I'm not supposed to be interested in anything beyond what will serve me as the daughter of an earl, but I cannot deny my fascination with the scientific realm. if one knows only how to listen, an entire world appears. I once peeked into Riff's microscope when he was called away, and marvels loomed before me—all seemingly housed in a single leaf, no bigger than the fingers of my doll.  

The Doctor catches my lingering gaze, and contemplation comes over him. "Tell me what color this is," he says carefully, holding up one of the vials.

It's the color of an unripened wheat stalk, a soft grey-green, but I hesitate. (The memory of Drew never too far.) "Why?"

"Because, often, a second opinion is needed for determining colors."

Reluctantly, I tell him the color. Unable to keep myself from twisting the corner of my pinafore out of worry. 

"Hm. And this one."

"Blue."

He sighs. "I was right. Your brother is going to be sorely disappointed."

My curiosity gets the better of me. "What are you trying to figure out?" 

"I was running tests for poison in the blood. if it had been present, it would have reacted differently with the chemicals. To produce different colors."

"I know," I offer. Wondering if I should reveal my clandestine studies. Reluctant to admit that I have taken such an unfeminine interest, and yet proud that I understand the letters, all marching towards the final product.  

Surprise shows on his face. "I didn't think governesses taught chemistry."

"I read about it in a book." My shyness recedes, and I cannot contain my urge to tell someone about my studies. "In one of Riff's books. Something with electrons, buzzing about." Unconsciously, I wiggle my fingers. "They move all the time."

"Yes, that's the current theory." It's difficult to tell, but he seems faintly pleased. As if his opinion of me has changed for the better.

How curious.

* * *

 

> _Jezabel_

I wait until her footsteps fade before investigating her gift. For some reason, an unbearable sense of loss comes over me; had my sisters been alive, either one could have made this. Are they angry with me, I wonder? Watching with hateful eyes, my worthless use of their "gift." How did they die—rendered docile by chloroform and brandy, perhaps, unaware they would never wake? Gurgling in their own blood as their throats were slit? Or were their necks broken, like that goose? Did they fight and plead? Or did they submit themselves to his judgment, as trusting as lambs?

More questions without answers. My sisters are nothing more than organs and discarded dresses. (Photographs of them must exist, I suppose. Father never kept any around, but since they were his daughters, he must have had something to remember them by. Or maybe not. Perhaps they were no more than cattle to him. Something useful but worthless. Like me.) 

As I unfold the memories of Father, as is my habit, hoping to unearth a revelation, an answer, anything at all, I notice that what we had no longer feels like love. Even though I desperately want it to be.  Somehow, all of that has receded, laying bare what I have denied. Instead of basking in his smiles, I can no longer imagine them as anything but the malicious grins he gave me in Delilah. His soft words laden with disgust.  Far from relief, a certain horror rises in me as the memories of his beatings no longer evoke the satisfaction that for a moment—just a moment!—he belonged to me, but rather anger that he ever raised a hand to me.

(Maybe it has always been there.) 

A soft morning light intrudes into my room, pushing past the heavy curtains. The sort of light that announces another disgruntled sky, another grey day of summer. Rain and mist. Clouds and cold. And with that, I realize that I have spent another night wide awake. While I was no stranger to this in Delilah, spending two, three concurrent nights in such a state, now it seems out of the ordinary, almost an indication of something amiss. It's strange how easily things change. When I was with Father, it was almost expected of me that I was nothing more than barely kept together wreck, or else, cold and cruel. And in my blind rage and misery, such expectations were easily fulfilled. Especially since I felt as though I were bleeding to death, but unable to staunch the wound, not even a little. But now that Cain expects me to act rationally, I find that such behavior is within my power, albeit more of a challenge.  I am no different than I was before, and yet, I suppose Cain might think me changed. I'm not sure what to make of this.

As I open the door, awkward hammering on the piano greets me, all sudden sprints and protracted pauses. Mary's piano lessons have always started early in the morning, and after I have selected a new novel from the library, I settle down nearby—not out of any sudden need for companionship. Certainly not that. No, it's the familiarity of it all. 

Since she has exasperated her last tutor to the point of tears, Cain has taken up that role. She finishes a little _adagio_  piece, fidgeting the entire time. As Cain turns the page to another song, she protests and pleads, and I can't help but recall, with a certain distaste and pride, how Father taught me the piano. It was a sullen thing, whose keys must have been weighted with iron, and of course, the dull ivory reminded me of the ceaseless, needless death that such an instrument required. Although I tried to banish the image from my mind, I would think of those elephants, weeping holes where their tusks belonged.  

He would stand directly behind me, slapping the braided whip handle into his palm to mark time. Never hard enough to harm himself, but still a reminder of what would befall me if I missed a note or lost the rhythm. And because I was thirteen and still clumsy, I often did. The first blow was always a surprise, but after that, the lashes settled into a predictable pattern. One-two-three. A pause. One-two-three. (Even when I was older, he never wavered from that pattern.)

And despite it all, I just longed for his approval until it took up residence in my chest as a constant ache. If only I could master this piece, then all would fade away, like an enchantment, and Father would return, Father who smiled and held me—the one I waited for all those years. I resolved to tried to solve this much like any puzzle of the human body—through constant, applied practice. I would tap out the rhythm on stiff book covers, desks, tables, anything with a flat surface, determined to bridge this obstacle. 

When he resumed our lessons, I could hardly contain my anticipation of his approval. This, I was determined, would remind him, that I, and not Cain, was the son who wanted his happiness, and when I played the final notes, I couldn't help but look back, slightly breathless. 

Under his composed face lay the unmistakable sign of disappointment. "You finally learned it." A cold disapproval in his tone. And in that moment, I wish he had hit me instead; that would have been easier to bear than knowing that all my practice was for naught. That even my best attempts at pleasing him did not suffice. 

Mary's deliberate cacophony brings me back from the past, and exasperated, Cain plays out the piece again, as an example. It's more lively. _Adante_. She, however, casts a careful eye over me, no doubt weighing how best to evade today's lesson. "Do you know how to play piano?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Play something for me then." 

 Cain gives her a warning look, but she pays it no heed. "Please?"

I hold a brief debate between indulging her and struggling with the leaden prose of my novel. Reluctantly, I acquiesce, deciding on one of Father's favorite pieces. Middle C is easily found, and I begin, almost mechanically. I don't derive any satisfaction from this—it is just another task to complete. I learned it by rote a lifetime ago, and so it comes to me easily. I have almost finished it, when I hit the wrong note. The air suddenly thickens, and I am back with Father again. It's useless to tell myself that it is not happening again, for even as I know it to be true, the fear does not cease. 

 Mary gives me a confused look. "Why did you stop? It sounded nice. Just try again."

I cannot explain, even if fear hadn't stolen my voice, how this is merely another pattern. One that begs to be completed, if only so that life can continue. I am waiting for the blow that will never come, because Father is dead. The anticipation of the beating proves just as upsetting as its absence. If I were alone, I think I might have hit myself, if only to complete the pattern and allow time to resume. But since I don't want any further doubts about my sanity, I do not.

 Mary opens her mouth to, no doubt, encourage me to finish, but, to my surprise, Neil intervenes. As he sends Cain and Mary away under some pretense, my heart sinks. I don't want to be left alone. And in that moment, I realize just how dependent I've become on Cain—and that frightens me, because there is only one way that will end.  I want to flee, to anywhere but here, here where I have fallen into another trap. I only have myself to blame—I put the noose around my own neck. Now, the only thing that remains is how he will be taken away from me. Even as it strikes me as a ludicrous fear, I cannot deny its hold over me. Snark twists within me, that coiling that always precedes vomiting, and I try to steel myself against that urge, although I find myself immobilized by the disruption in the pattern.  Everyone wants their pound of flesh from me, their claim on what is not mine. 

But Neil just sits there, worry tightening his mouth, as I wait and wait for what won't come. Resenting how my past is scrawled on my body. How obvious the source of it all must be—everything leads back to Father. At last, he finally raises my hand away from the keys, although I remain frozen in place, unable to break away from what surely must follow next. 

"You don't have to tell me anything," he begins, unexpectedly soft. I had never associated anything resembling gentleness with him before, but then again, managing the affairs of a prominent family hardly lends itself to softness. Maybe I have misjudged him, despite all his ill-advised actions. Maybe he has only done what he thought best. 

Despite my reserve, my fingers curl, ever so slightly, onto his hand, his skin thin from age. The grooves of his knuckles worn deep. I allow myself just the faintest of touches, before drawing back.  

 "I never thought I'd have children," Neil says, at last. "My wife—your aunt—died without bearing any." Another pause. "And then the family gave me Cain to raise, because no one else wanted him. You can, no doubt, imagine the immense difficulties" He smiled ruefully. "For the longest time he didn't understand that the servants could see him, and I never understood until Raffael told me. And I was furious with Alexis, that he had raised a child like that." 

Oh, if he thinks that horrifying, I suppose Cain never did tell him the whole story. Even as I resent Neil for what he does not have to bear, I wonder if that is Cain's way of putting the past to rest. By concealing it. 

"But there's no point in despising a dead man," Neil continues, a little more softly. "Everything fades."

I'm not convinced of that just yet, particularly as the marks on my back say otherwise. No, if anything fades, it is the mundane details. I no longer remember any of my schooling, only the wet red and the ceaseless cadavers that it involved. The long nights, and brutal examinations. No, I am certain I will remember what has been done to me until my dying day, even if I forget all else. And I don't know what to do with that knowledge.  Would I forget, if it was in my power to do so? Is it a matter of wanting, or is it something else? 

The final experiments at Delilah were all centered on the brain. How one forgets—or does not. How the will can be bent. How personality can be reshaped. It's not impossible to destroy the areas responsible for memories, but what one is left with is a fragment of an existence, remembering only less than a minute of the present. Thirty seconds, or so. It's a ghastly existence, to never be truly aware of where—or even who—one is. To have only thirty seconds of being. And then nothing. Living one's life in an inescapable pattern.

(One-two-three. Pause. One-two-three.)

The only thing that time has left with me with the aching realization that one cannot escape the soil. That every heartbeat brings me closer to death.  If I was a wiser man, I might have relinquished this struggle against the past, in favor of a gentle life with Cain and my—what do I call them? Family does not sound correct. Not family. Not friends either. Apart from the curse that runs in my veins, the only common element we all share is Father. Everything leads back to Father. 

I only see now what I should have had, and although I am no stranger to jealousy, this digs into me unlike anything I have felt before. A sore that cannot be healed. A wound made of all the stolen years that I should have had for myself. I despise Mary for that, for her innocence, and I despise Cain for having the rest of his life for himself. For leaving Father's shadow while he was still young enough to distinguish between himself and Father. I, on the other hand, am ruined, irreparably, and every day I become more aware of the extent. 

Neil places my hand on the bench with a certain tenderness at odds with his stern demeanor. (Almost as a grandfather would.) Evidently thinking that I had been struck into speechlessness with a wondrous insight, instead of more ruinous brooding. Another cycle I cannot escape. 

 "I know what Alexis wanted for you, and what Cain wants," Neil says, so that only I can hear. A careful, heavy pause. "But what do you want?"

 His question takes me aback, because no one had ever asked me that. I had thought so long of myself as an object, to be acted upon, that I had never considered what I might want. If that was something I was even capable of. 

 He senses my inability to find a ready answer. "I see." And with that, he moves to take his leave. Just as he reaches the door, however, he pauses again, gruff demeanor given over to contemplation. "I've going to look over today's post, but I'm certain Mary would like to be taken out to see the goats. The rain should clear up soon."

  _(What do you want?)_

I continue turning the question over long after he leaves me.  

* * *

The morning gives way to a surprisingly pleasant afternoon and so Cain drags me outside, against my half-hearted protests. I am slightly irked that Neil was correct in his predictions—I don't like it when others are correct—but Cain's insistence gives me something else to be annoyed with. From the net, I know Cain has enlisted me into a game of badminton.  

"Only a small game," Cain begins, handing me the racket. "I can practically feel my muscles atrophy from a day indoors."

I give into my urge to correct him, if only to appease my sulkiness. "Atrophy takes months."

"Best to not let it start then," he replies, with a grin. Twisting the birdie. "Last time, I believe, I was in the lead."

"Last time, you had Mary with you." I cannot help myself from pouting slightly, my pride wounded. "Hardly fair odds."

"True," he concurs. "Would you like Mary this time, or—" Those eyes alight with mischievousness, he crooks an arm behind his back. "Or I could play you like this?"

"You'll fall like that," I point out, flatly. "You have no balance. And the grass is still wet."

 "Is that concern I detect?" He teases, albeit not maliciously. "Concern for my well-being?"

"Don't be daft." My words come out more harshly than I had intended, and his look of hurt pains me, against my better nature. 

"Oh, don't be cross with me," Cain replies, if a bit stiffly, tossing me the birdie. "Here, I'll let you serve first."

 I accept it wordlessly, partially ashamed of my unintended hostility and partially upset with him for reminding me of how I used to hide everything I loved from Father, lest it be taken away. (But he found out. He always did.)

 "So," he continues, walking to his preferred spot. "I've interviewed the suspects. No one actually saw the crime in progress."

"Of course not." I wait for the chilly breeze to leave us. "Were you expecting a confession?"

He shrugs. "Beside that, there's everyone in the smoking room as a suspect." He looks at the bordering trees, deep in thought. "And the footmen. And of course, Lady Jane, who discovered the body—highly suspect, since she's a young widow."

"You think she's a black widow?" I start the match, sending the birdie to his left. 

"You don't?"

"Oh, no. She's a childish little woman. So excitable."

"What about Lord Gilroy?"

"He's certainly wicked enough."

"Wicked enough to kill?"

I pause, remembering the self-satisfied way he told his gruesome story. "Quite frankly, I hardly care if the entire nobility gets killed off. Good riddance."

Cain tries a different approach. "I think we're looking at this wrong. The question is not how, but why? Certainly there's an element of sadism involved."

"You'd need the rest of the reports for that conclusion," I point out. 

He swings his racket at the incoming birdie. "Already have them."

"How did you accomplish that?"

"I impersonated you."

"What?" I am so surprised that the birdie flies by, unnoticed. "And how, do tell, did you manage that."

"After that little exercise with the autopsy, I realized how easy it was to impersonate a doctor." He then gives his best impression of my voice and speaking pattern. 

A slight amusement, and perhaps even amazement, comes over me, but I pretend to not be so easily swayed. Still, I cannot suppress a faint grin, as I pick the birdie up from its resting place. "That's not accurate," I reply. "At all."

He smirks, no doubt pleased with his ingenuity. "It worked for the coroner. He sent me all the reports."

 A sudden worry comes over me, that he has discovered how to render me utterly dispensable. That he knows just how replaceable I truly am.  I hit the birdie harder than I mean to, and it falls out of Cain's reach. 

( _What do you want?_ )

Is this what I want? To spend my days with Cain? Can such a thing last?

 If Cain notices my sudden change in mood, he does not remark on it, instead continuing on about the case. "All of the previous murders were similar, which, of course, points to the same person. Someone with enough influence that Scotland Yard didn't question him." He pauses. "But then why go to the hassle of poisoning someone with a nonlethal dose. it seems unnecessary."

"Because it wasn't a poison.  The test was negative, as predicted."

"Didn't you need a second opinion for that? Don't tell me you asked the dog."

I decide to ignore Cain's skepticism about Cassian. "Mary offered hers," I reply. "She'd make an excellent chemist."

Cain misses the birdie, and as he stoops to retrieve it, he shakes his head in disbelief. "That's not a reputable position for her."

"The world is changing, Cain."

"Not that quickly."

 I am becoming a bit breathless from all this exercise. "What we ought to be asking ourselves is what looks like a poison, gives all the signs of a poison, but clearly is not."

Cain falls into contemplation. "A hallucinogenic? That would explain the bizarre behavior, but not the rest." 

"They're discovering new plants in the Amazon all the time," I counter. "It's excruciatingly difficult to test for something no one knows much about."

"It would have to imported then."

"Or, one could just go to the right party, if one knew where to look," I reply, remembering how Cassandra always kept up on the latest drugs. He never partook himself, preferring to stay in control of himself, but would never shy away from testing them out on his wards. 

"A drug experiment turned sour?"

I nod. "I'll bet the murderer found out how to influence people by chance, and now can't relinquish that power over life and death." A struggle I am sympathetic to. 

"Then why pick the nobility as one's prey? I would think the lower-classes—a new maid or footman—would be easier prey."

"What better prey than one's own?" I remember how that horrible man relished the details of the chase. Hatred binds my chest.  "How _thrilling_ it must be."

Cain frowns, not completely swayed. "Perhaps." A final swing of the racket, but he misses the birdie again. "We'll see how correct you are at the party tonight." As he brushes off the wet debris that it has gathered from repeatedly falling onto the grass, I wonder if I can be content with this, for the rest of my life. A practice in the village and solving mysteries with the brother I despised for so many years. Until he marries, and takes up Neil's life of household affairs and societal frivolities.  

An acute sense of loneliness strikes me. A loss that is felt before it occurs—this cannot last; nothing lasts. And one day, this too will be relegated to memories that will fade. Fade and flicker, before they are forgotten. I have wasted my life in the pursuit of something I could never have, and now—now there is only another series of losses to look forward to. 

And where does that leave me, the unwanted son?

 ( _What do you want?_ )

* * *

 

> _Cain_

 The evening proves uneventful, to my disappointment. I forget who's hosting the party this time. Lord Sunderby? It hardly matters, after all; I'm not here for the company, dull as it is, but rather to catch the murderer in the act. To pass the time, I try to guess who will be next: the man in the corner, searching for his companion, or that whispering, unchaperoned woman? The grand dame accepting another glass of wine from the footman? Boredom comes over me, and resolve to search for my brother, who has disappeared again. 

I hope he hasn't decided to murder someone just to get out of the rest of the evening. 

The hostess announces that the entertainment of the evening has finally arrived, just as I find him, sulking.

"Didn't you hear?" Jezabel begins, in an morally outraged tone. (It's still strange to think of him as someone with morals, albeit considerably warped ones.) "They brought the parrot that was in the papers a while ago."

"The fortune-telling one?"

He shakes his head. "What a ludicrous notion."

"As opposed to _re-animating corpses_?" I whisper, so that only he can hear. "And anyhow, won't it be nice to see it? Even if it is a fraud, it still looked handsome."

That my brother cannot argue against, and the struggle between curiosity and annoyance plays out on his face.  He crosses his arms, returning to his sulky look. "I suppose."

Striding into the center of the room, a man—a showman by his gaudy suit—commands our attention. Gesturing to the covered cage. "Theodore, the bird prophet," the showman begins, to appreciative murmurs. "From the depths of the Amazon. Be careful what you ask him, ladies and gentlemen, for he speaks only truth."  The showman then rattles off a list of "predictions"—the fall of the rupee, the death of Prince Albert, and other unlikely occurrences. For one, I doubt the bird was alive twenty years ago. For another, it seems unlikely that a such bird would be paraded around London as entertainment for the bored upper-classes. 

I turn back to my brother, starting to comment on the unlikelihood that it is a fortune-teller, when I notice that his face has darkened at the sight of the cage.  

"It won't stay in a cage," I say. Slightly fearful that I might have to defuse another scene. 

He shakes his head a little in disbelief. Crossing his arms more tightly. "Are you amused," he says in a low, deadly tone, "by some poor animal on display? Trained to repeat sounds he does not understand?"

"It's just harmless fun."

"Also long as he's a novelty. And when the fun has worn off, off he goes—set loose into an unfamiliar world or consigned to a dark cage."

 With the cage opened, the bird crawls onto the showman's forearm. Curling its talons into the leather wrist guard. Its eyes, as dark as the bottom of a well, unsettles Lady Jane, who makes a great show of her fright, as high-born women are wont to do. (How strange. I had thought the murder would have put her off parties.)

"He predicted my husband's death," she whispers to me, to my brother's annoyance. "A sudden fever. Theodore took one look at him and kept repeating the word 'heat.' And a week later, Albert died."

"That's a coincidence," I reply. "It's well known that parrots don't understand what they say." 

She frowns. "But he spoke truly."

"Coincidence," I insist. "People die of fevers all the time. It's a statistical certainty." 

"But he rarely repeats his words."

I pause but for a moment, studying the showman as the bird predicts Lord Andrew's future—a second child. "An act of ventriloquism, then. Notice how he keeps silent as the bird 'speaks.' One can see similar acts in the music halls."

She sighs. "Is there no room for the spiritual in that world of yours?" 

In response, I smile. "I deal with facts, Lady Jane. Not fantasies."

"Why live in a mansion if you can't indulge yourself in fantasy," she begins, with a smile that tells me I have charmed her. She makes a sweeping gesture of the room, the chandeliers alight and the soft murmurs of the guests. "All this beauty. Why, it's like a fairy story."

"Fairy stories have their dark sides," I reply, holding up the mysterious feather. "Does this belong to Theodore?"

"Oh!" Her eyes widen at the feather. "No. It's from a smaller bird. A parakeet, I think. That must belong to Lord Gilroy's parakeets. He must have forgotten to have his coat brushed off before he left."

I frown; Jezabel had told me it was from a parrot. "He must have been in a hurry."

 "Don't you know?" She glances around before leaning in. "His estate is—"

"Ruined," Jezabel interrupts. "His wife wants a divorce; he lost the fortune to gambling. He is going mad; he's surprisingly sane, considering his wife sleeps with the footman; he lost his mistress; he has too many mistresses. Did I miss something?"

Taken aback, she stammers out something, before leaving. Returning her glass to one of the many trays being carried around. She's right-handed, I note, out of curiosity. Trivia like that stands out to me now, after Riff's dea—departure. 

"Have you gone mad?" I cannot contain my irritation at his tactlessness. "Being rude to her won't bring us any closer to solving this."

"It's already solved.  It's doesn't matter why he went on a murder spree, only that he did. " Jezabel shakes his head, contemplation hardening his face. "They're all the same. All concerned with magnifying their worthless affairs until it becomes a Greek tragedy. The real tragedy is that poor bird. It will spend its life being used—and discarded." For a moment, he looks as though he might start crying. "But what do you care? It doesn't affect you. It never has." And with that, he turns on his heel, breaking away from me.  

 I contemplate chasing after him, but decide against it. Instead, I watch him fade into the crowd, painfully aware of my inability to set anything to right.  Weighed down by the guilt and anger and sorrow that I cannot surrender. All I want is a family again, but it seems that such a thing cannot be so. And my kingdom collapses into sand within my hands, always out of my reach.  

True, I am vexed with him, for acting the petulant, spoilt child liable to fly into a temper, but I am more frustrated with myself. Why is being a family so difficult for me? I had never before realized just how crucial Riff was to my existence, and with his loss, I cannot even keep up a semblance of what we had. Perhaps we are too broken to make each other happy, the way families ought to. Perhaps we cannot imitate what we have never known. 

I suppose he feels some kinship with the bird, projecting his fears onto it. As difficult as it may be for him to believe, I do not desire his unhappiness. But at the same time, I have never known the way back, before Father took what was never his. I wonder everyday, what a different man I might be—how much braver and kinder and stronger—if I had not had Father in my life. Jezabel can rant about how Father stole his life, but the benevolent Father he alludes to, in hushed, reverent tones—as if he might walk through the doorway any moment now—is a stranger to me. And in those moments of reminiscing, although Jezabel does not recognize it, his eyes soften and I can see the child he must have been. The gentleness that he hid. 

The light was never extinguished. 

I am sick with envy that he has some part of himself that existed before Father, for I can claim no such thing. Instead, I bear a personality that was shaped by him before I had words. Before I had sense. I am wholly his creation, for there is no part of me without Father's influence in its marrow.  

 I pass the time with a glass of wine, sunk into a silence—hardly enthused by the prospect of catching Lord Gilroy in the act of murder. The whole idea seems frivolous now. A fool's errand. So, it comes to no surprise when more screams break out, and commotion ensues as the remaining guests rush forth to see who has been picked off next. I suppose it must enliven their monotonous existence, to have a killer in their midst.  Idly, I make my way to the crime scene, but my heart stills as I see the corpse.

Lying in a pool of his own blood, with leaking wounds, is Lord Gilroy.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'll be writing from Mary's POV again. Not enough angst and suffering for me. And don't worry, I won't be writing from Uncle Neil's POV, because it would be all boring household affairs and constant worry and annoyance about his terrible nephews. It would be like a less witty Downton Abbey, I imagine.  
> Also, have any of you read the first American Gothic, Wieland? If not, I recommend it. It is a trip, albeit a dense and not easy-to-read trip. It's also where the parrot gets his name.  
> As always, thank you for continuing to read. I'd love to hear from you!


	4. Perhaps not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had to revamp the outline. This was supposed to be only a mystery, only five chapters long, and then I realized that it was not just a mystery, but it was, in fact, the second part that answered the questions raised in the second part.  
> Again, thank you for bearing with me, as I decide what this piece should look like. I've finally found its heart, and I hope you will decide to continue reading it, despite its rough start.

> _Cain_

To my shame, relief washes over me. I thought for a horrid, paralyzing moment that I had been too harsh or too cold with Jezabel, and he had done something foolish and hasty, something he could not take back. 

And yet, the memory of Riff returns to me, forever linked to such a ghastly choice.  

I think on how Riff preferred to take his own life than cause me harm, and a tremor of terror courses through me, as I wonder if it will ever come to that. Could I? I still have no answers, as to how I feel about  Riff's decision.  When I despair of my hereditary burden, it is noble and brave and wise to lay down such suffering; yet in moments of respite, when I sit next to my brother, listening to him read Collins or Doyle or any of the thousand voices bound and preserved, if only imperfectly—aware of the fleetingness of being—then it is foolish and hasty.

A horror without bounds. 

Life carries on, even when he didn't. It is cruel and reassuring, that one cannot mean all that much to the world. And yet, sometimes, in the briefest of moments, I see him again, and I am on the floor again, clutching at my only—my only—no. I cannot revisit his memory again, not here. It pains me too greatly. And no more is there a servant to rescue me when I become overwhelmed. I must do it myself.

I harden my heart against the past, stilling the shaking of my hands, ignoring the coldness on my skin.

Although the cooling corpse disproves Jezabel's hypothesis, I am just glad I am not staring at his. How strange. A year ago, we were enemies, and he had promised to cut out my eyes for his collection. Two years ago, I thought myself alone, the only one bearing Father's blood. And now, I am just relieved that for now, at least, he's still alive.

 A second fear tugs at me. This murder is incompatible with the previous ones, suggesting a different suspect, and I can only hope Jezabel didn't decide to take out his rage on him. I cannot confess any great love for the man, but I will be vexed with my brother if he has decided to revert to his old ways, and in doing so, endanger the both of us—not to mention the already precarious reputation of the family.

I sigh, collecting myself, as I move to survey the corpse amid hushed whispers. The cuts are short, though deep; stabs rather than incisions—not my brother's signature long gouges. Relieved at this, I continue my cursory examination: beyond the wounds, this one bears the tell-tale traces of poison: the scuffs and swelling bruises that mark a seizure, the bit of vomit at his mouth. Different from the others, and yet...this murder seem to be the work of the same hand as before. A botched attempt, carelessly covered up. Again. 

I frown. Part of me wonders if this mystery hallucinogen could not also act as a poison: inducing altered states at one dose, death at a higher one. And perhaps, as the corpse suggests, that difference is merely incremental. I resist the urge to smile at this. Nothing pleases me more than discovering a new poison for my collection. 

My attention, however, is interrupted by Lady Jane, who quivers in the corner, apart from the crowd. All trembling fear. "It's dreadful. Just dreadful."

"I just hope he didn't suffer much," I reply. "What a ghastly way to go."

"Everyone liked him," she begins, her eyes shining with tears. How terribly dramatic. "Who could hurt him so?"

"Someone with a grudge, I suspect."

She shakes her head, and suddenly struck with a hunch, I offer my hand to her. As she accepts, drying her tears with her other gloved hand, I notice something peculiar. Encircling the forearm of her left glove is a series of clean holes.

* * *

>   _Jezabel_

 Of course, everyone wants Cain. Darling, precious Cain.

Even I want Cain, despite the price his life has exacted from mine.  When he slept next to me, silent save for the rustling of the covers and the passage of his breath, an overwhelming warmth crept over me. The sort that suffocates and mends. And in that moment, I could not tell which outcome it would bring, only that I would gladly accept it.

And yet, I could not reconcile my newfound feelings of kinship with my hatred towards him. Part of me wanted nothing more than to slowly, slowly eviscerate his sleeping form, to separate him from the flesh, until that beauty finally belonged to me—and me alone. His blood on my hands, his warmth on my skin. Those eyes, pained yet defiant, on me.

(These thoughts come so easily, so naturally, that I forget that they have not always been a part of me.)

I dreamt that night in red, as I always do—but a paler red, not the pulsing red of my nightmares. The red of a fading leaf, perhaps.  (Fading, fading, fading. Until only the skeletal cellulose remains.)

 And then, soon after Cassian returned, Cain stopped sleeping beside me. At first, I hardly noticed it, enveloped in my impossible joy, but as the days dragged on and novelty faded, its absence made itself known. And I do not know what to make of it—and the coldness that it has left. It seems cruel that I should finally be allowed to experience some semblance of warmth again, a warmth almost like Snark's, and then have it revoked so quickly. 

 ( _What do you want?_ )

The forest, the wilderness at the edge of the estate, invites me back, and I lose myself, fleeing from the question that cannot leave me.  Again and again, Neil's foolish words reverberate. Receding and ringing. They splinter in my mind, the sounds coming undone until there is no more sense to the syllables, only pockets of sound and fury. (I wonder, only half-interested, if I have finally gone mad.) But I take no joy in this chaos.

My inability to answer pains me in a way that I never foresaw, for it reminds me what I have given up—and what I have lost. In suppressing my nature—only Father knew whether or not it is my true nature—I have relinquished my life's purpose; to make Cain suffer for what his life has cost me. But nothing has materialized to fill that void, and so I remain without a reason. There is no crueler existence than to be meaningless.  Meaningless and disposable. Anything is bearable with a reason, but without reason, there is only the inevitable question of suffering's worth.

 What I have lost is far more distressing. It seems that I have found myself bound to Cain. I can no more leave him than I could Father. And so, I wait for the day he will inherit the title, and the day he marries, and the day he looks into the gurgling face of his newborn—with the dark Hargreaves hair and the curse in its tiny, filthy veins—and forgets all about me. 

It seems I still haven't learned anything. If I was more vengeful, I might take a lover, just to spite Cain, but that doesn't interest me. It never has. 

With a surge of anger, I throw myself onto the raised roots, the moss smooth and slippery like gauze, as I give into this uncontrollable loss. Clutching at the roughness of the tree.  It is not love, with all the danger that such feelings entail, that drives me to such melancholy, for I do not think I will ever love anyone the way I loved Father. A blessing and a curse. And yet, I am no helpless child, to be bent to the will of others, even if I have no dreams and no family.  

 It is a cruel punishment to be left to wander aimlessly, to know home once but never again. Cain and Mary think that they can ward off the past with their facsimile of home—with words and gestures as study as paper. It sickens me to see her bustling about, at once a little mother and a street-child. And Cain lets her, because he wants his dream fulfilled, and he keeps me here, because he wants to prove to himself that the past no longer holds any sway over him. But a little fear, creeping about at the edge of his eyes, so easily mistaken for concern,  says otherwise: he cannot forget, as I cannot, and so we remain here, stuck fast like nettles, at an impasse. He cannot allay the past, and I cannot change. 

I have been here a year, now. A year with him. Is that not enough time to know if I have changed? I thought once, that perhaps I could, but such feats seem to be relegated to fairy stories. Even though Cassian has returned, taking a different form, but still unmistakably there, I have not.  

I cannot fathom what he saw in me, to inspire such a foolish, one-sided devotion. I used to wonder if it would have been best to leave Delilah with him, to take that train to anywhere—the country or beyond; I could have easily made my living on my own, setting up some residence in a village, far from Father's reach. I used to tell myself that Father would have found me, and taken me back, and part of me wanted to test my scheme, just to prove to myself that I was still valuable enough to be hunted again. (Like Cain.) What stilled my hand was the knowledge that I was nothing more to him than a tool, worth more for my abilities than my being. And in the end, he decided that my use to him had ended.

Some nights, when night stiffens the air and the blankets are too heavy, I want to ask Cassian if he felt a lot of pain before he died. If he dreams about it, like I do. I used to dream about it so often that I hated sleeping, because I would, without fail, watch him die, (and die and die and die). But I never do. I'm ashamed of what my choices cost him.     

On those nights of blood and terror, before Cassian returned, I used to tap Cain awake, just lightly enough that he thought that he woke of his own accord, and have him tell me about anything, in a soft, sleep-heavy voice. The poisons behind the wall. The way Mary annoyed her governess. Anything. He'd drift off, inevitably, the pauses in his words increasing, until his stories dissolved into a series of soft exhales. 

(I wonder, not for the first time, if Cain dreams about it too.)

The lamb-white moon reminds me of Snark. Sheep rarely live past twelve years, but if he had been allowed to live, then—no, I try not to think too long on traveling the countryside with Snark. A doctor and his sheep. That's but another future that never came to pass.  (I dreamt about Snark last night. I led him back to a pen, and left him there to die. There, surrounded by the white walls. Only when I awoke, did I remember that he never had a pen. Am I leaving him again? Is such an action inevitable or a choice?) 

 Perhaps it is only a trick of my memories of the time spent with Snark, but I finally come to my senses. The air, though sharp with cold, is calmer here, among the wild creatures, and I collect myself, brushing off the dirt, the branches; the dampness of the leaves, however, remains, and I cannot do anything about the stains. Those will be the bane of some faceless, nameless maid.

I survey the undulating expanse of grass, just outside the wilderness. Is home, as the English believe, in the land, bequeathed from father to (legitimate) son? Is it in a person, as I believed for far too long? Is it a state, something not beholden to the bonds of life but rather found in one's mind? Can home be chosen or bestowed? Finding no answers, as always, I move to return to the manor, calmed by the wild.  

The gardens, though darkened, prove just as beautiful as in the daylight. Against the black boughs ripple the paleness of blossoms. I frown. It's too late for apple blossoms, and I can hardly remember what blooms in mid-summer. As I continue to wonder, a crow regards me with his ink eyes, framed by the darkness of the branches.

Unable to resist the allure of meeting one of God's creatures, I offer up a bit of bread. While he contemplates my trustworthiness, two more birds make themselves known—two unmistakably tame parrots. Shuffling over, they eagerly greet me and snatch the bread away. Dividing it unfairly between themselves. I half smile, despite myself. Perhaps they are brothers. 

"Share it," I admonish, only half-serious. "Set a good example for your friend."

"Cold," one of them replies. 

I frown. "Sorry?"

 "Cold," they repeat. "Cold in the cellar. Cold. "

Although I am initially taken aback, I quickly realize what has transpired. Someone has taught the birds to mimic a human voice, and in doing so, drove the men to their suicides. The drug was administered, no doubt, to facilitate such a scenario. I can't say I care about how some filthy human met his end, rightly or wrongly, but the use of animals angers me. To carelessly involve an innocent—

I suppose murder is out of the question. Cain has inherited Father's cold practicality, but prefers to keep up a charming facade in front of his peers. Much like Father. Again, the circumstances of one's birth will protect the killer from Cain's more typical methods of revenge, but Cain plays a foolish game, for one day they'll trace the poisons back to him. The Earl of _Poisons_.  When I informed him of this likelihood, Cain just shrugged, uncomfortable and yet unwilling to change.  

 Still, I suppose I must return to that dreadfully hot and stuffy place, to make my amends to whatever fool girl I offended. I resent her for trying to possess my brother's affections, and in the end, all the murders have the same motive: revenge or obsession. A dullness mitigated by the allure of the puzzles each corpse presents. 

The human heart holds little interest to me, the one who does not have one anymore. And yet, I sense that I have overlooked a crucial part in this case as a result of such blindness. In retrospect, such brutal murders suggest revenge of a sort. 

But I can no more understand _why_ than a fish could crawl. It's not how I was made. Father had no use for empathy, and so he made certain that I would be unhindered by it. 

For some reason, that loss strikes me as unspeakably painful. 

A little coo distracts me from myself, my ugly insides that will kill me one day. One parrot nudges closer to me. Its eyes warm with affection, and I cannot resist.

I hope Neil will not be too upset.  

* * *

> _Cain_

All the pieces fall into place, as I remember my brother's words about the killer being exceedingly sloppy. I seize her forearm, against her indigent protests, turning over the glove to see the set of pinholes that so clearly mark the presence of a bird. 

 "Your glove... You killed him," I begin. "He must have wronged you in the past—blackmail, perhaps, and so you killed him."

 "Are you mad, Lord Hargreaves?" she replies, trying to wrench her arm away from me. "I know it runs in your family, but I never thought that you might be so afflicted. To handle a lady in such a vile manner, and then to accuse me of such a heinous act—"

Still, given my reputation as London's gentleman detective, the room lapses into a hushed silence. Glasses are clutched tightly, and eyes dart from her to me. Watching us, to see which of us is correct. 

My blood, however, runs cold at her casual mention of Aunt Augusta's state. How has it come to be such common knowledge among the gentry? Still, I note the way she distances herself with formality, and sense that I have guessed correctly about her. "No, Lady Jane. You killed him, and you killed the others."

She pales. "That's slander, Lord Hargreaves." 

"Your gloves are fresh," I continue, more slowly as I put the evidence together, "and yet they bear holes from a bird perching there." I rip her glove off, revealing the corresponding pinpricks in her flesh.  "Had the gloves been old, not only would it have been a grievous oversight on the part of  your maid. But they would have frayed in the wash." I catch her gaze; her eyes shine with hatred. "How careless of you. And so predictable, to drive men to their deaths by using birds to feign a human voice." 

"And where are these pretend birds?" she counters, clearly distressed. "Prove it, Lord Hargreaves."

I pause, my mind furiously spinning. Leaping from evidence "They must be outside somewhere. Out of sight—"

"They're here."

I turn to find my brother, dirtied but unaccountably pleased with himself. And sure enough, two plump parrots coo, shuffling along his forearm—leaving holes in his coat. Uncle Neil will be unhappy about that. With an expression of tenderness that I have only seen him give to animals, Jezabel strokes one on the head. "They were in the garden."

(For all his disavowal of flamboyance, my brother has an undeniable flair for the dramatic. I wonder just how long he has been standing there, petting the birds and waiting for the right moment.) 

I cannot help but smirk. "It's over. Scotland Yard will be here momentarily, to examine the corpse—and arrest you for six counts of murder."

She shakes her head slightly, and I am almost inclined to pity her, but then I remember how she had begun to seek me out. A chill runs down my neck at the thought that I might have been her next victim. Could have I counted on Jezabel to set my death to right?

Unconcerned, Jezabel feeds one of the birds another piece of bread. "Who died in the cellar?" he asks, nonchalantly. "Was it a friend, whom you felt some need to avenge? A relative?"

 Surprise gives way to anger on her face, as she fumbles for a nasty retort. Than she falls silent, resigned to her fate. "It was my father's maid. Eliza. She was like a sister to me—and they left her to die in the cellar. In the middle of winter. It was a game to them. Seduce the hapless maid, and then—" She shakes her head at the thought of it all. "You'd never understand what happens to him that hath no helper."

Someone takes the parrots from Jezabel, citing them as evidence; amid their eerie chirps of "cold, cold," he parts with them reluctantly, and I suspect that they will be the newest additions to his collection the moment that Scotland Yard finishes its investigation. 

"So you took the law into your own hands." Jezabel surveys Lord Gilroy's corpse with a disinterested eye. "The dose was off for this one, wasn't it? And so, you panicked and tried to cover it up, badly. Poor choice. Tell me, what did you use to make the incisions? The cuts are jagged. A kitchen knife, perhaps? Whatever was still on hand from the supper?"

Angry tears fall down her face. "You think you're so damn clever, don't you? I know all about you. You're stark-raving mad. That's why you're not going to inherit. There's enough madness in the Hargreaves line already."

 Jezabel pales with either horror or anger, and for a moment, I think he is about to strike her. Then he turns on his heel, and leaves, clearly angry. I exhale the breath I did not realize that I had been keeping in. Relinquishing my grip on Lady Jane, I give her over to one of the guests, to detain until Scotland Yard arrives. Suddenly weary. 

Far from being pleased that I have solved another string of murders, I find only a disquiet that a not insignificant percentage of the gentry has been privy to my family's secrets. She would not have dared to speak so plainly, had she not thought such things already known. And that frightens me.  

How much of my family's secrets are spread about in rumors and gossip. A chill comes over me at the thought that one day, someone will know what Father has done, the depths of his cruelty. 

Once I hardly cared what others thought, since they, after all, were not like me—the calamity child who stole the color from his mother's cheeks, leaving her as the ghost I remember. But with Father truly dead, now I find myself longing for the quiet life I should have had all these years. Enlivened by the occasional murder, of course. 

To my shame, weakness washes over me, as I wish for Riff to return, to enclose me in his arms and reassure me that I am doing right. That I may yet escape Father. 

I cannot ask such a thing of my brother, because I cannot predict how he will react to my wish. True, we slept next to each other, but I fear that asking for such comfort might lead him to read a proposal in my request that was not intended. (That I cannot allow myself to fulfill.) And then I will receive heated accusations that I truly am Father's son, and that I cannot bear.

A second outcome presents itself, unwanted in my mind, that he will just give me that lost look that he has sometimes, when he thinks himself all alone. And then I will despise myself for using him. 

(I wonder, futilely, if his arms are like Riff's. Not particularly muscular, but sturdy all the same. A haven.) 

I am left with an acute sense of aloneness.

* * *

> _Jezabel_

 I find no solace that this mystery has been put to rest. Oh, how I hate to be reminded that I am the worthless son, the mad son, the half son. 

Cassian bounds onto the bed, pleased to see me again, as he had been kept in the kitchens. I smile, more fond of him now that he has taken on the flesh of an innocent. Still I wonder, what a price that must have been, to relinquish the human joys of speech and learning and community—to be with me, one last time. 

Was it worth it?

The only answer I receive is a soft grunt, as he settles beside me, more daring than he ever was as a human, because he knows my heart is boundless and forgiving when it comes to God's creatures. 

Although Cassian does comfort me, simply by being there, I cannot help but wait against the demands of the clock, half-hoping that the door will creak open and Cain will join me, to lay side-by-side with me; to turn over in his sleep, with a lazy sigh; to smirk at my scoldings over his inadequate clothing.  

But I have always harbored foolish hopes. 

My hand reaches across the bed, across the ocean of clean linen, and finds nothing, save my foolish desires. And with that, I slowly, slowly curl on myself.  

I am cold again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I write that I'm influenced by your feedback as readers, and I actually mean it. I do change plot points if I read something that I agree with. Now that we all know who the killer is, I can let you in on a secret: Lord Gilroy was never intended to be killed off. He was supposed to be some noble that we never saw again, who literally just existed to upset Jizabel, and then Kitart mentioned that they kept thinking he would be killed off, and I thought to myself, well, why not? I'm very, very ok with killing characters off, as you all probably know by now. I don't need much encouragement for that.
> 
> And with that, we transition into the narrative format I have realized that I like best—anything but the mystery. I'm a huge fan of reading them, don't really care for writing them. I really like the domestic stuff, so we'll be seeing more of that. And suffering. All the suffering. Because I'm a fan of that too. There is so much suffering ahead. I'm really looking forward to writing it for you all. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I really do mean it. I always love to hear from you all.


	5. Between Love and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to justify my word usage in the last chapter, if only to myself. So, I follow the just word concept. If I can't find the right word, then I'll make one. Now, I know loneliness would have worked just the same, but for me, it didn't capture the feeling like "aloneness" did.

"The past is never dead. It's not even past."

—William Faulkner, _Requiem for a Nun_

> _Neil_

Cain has been unusually sulky lately. It was difficult enough managing one strong-willed Hargreaves, but two is a bit of a challenge. If it is not Cain who is trying the limits of social decorum, then it's his half-brother. Just yesterday, I had to tell him off for walking in the rain, and he replied, in a completely level tone, that he was as likely to catch a cold from the rain as I was from reading the post. If I had had any doubts about his parentage before that moment, they were dispelled: he might not have inherited Alexis's looks, but he inherited his will.  

 It's strange how life carries on. Alexis is dead, thankfully dead at last, and yet, I see him in his children. Or rather, I see refractions of him—his self-assurance, almost to the point of haughtiness, in Cain; his air of quiet scheming in Jezabel. Despite his unforgivable crimes, Alexis, like all people, was not wholly evil. And when I try to reach Cain, when he is suspicious and given to flight, that is perhaps the hardest to remember.  

 My thoughts are interrupted by Jezabel, who absentmindedly strolls past, deep in thought. Carrying one—no, two letters for the post. He worries me, for he's broken, irreparably broken, where Cain is merely bent. I had thought my file would have been enough to prepare myself, but I could not have been more mistaken.  I know Cain hides half of what he does from me, and the thought unnerves me, for what I have seen so far is baffling.  He's terribly clever, of course, but also given to unpredictable moods. He's a favorite in the village hospital, if only for the simple fact that he has never had a patient die on him, but he'll spend the day in hysterics if he comes across a dead animal.  Part of me wonders if it has something to do with Alexis, like how Cain won't let the new valet undress him. 

(Still, one puts the broken china in the back of the cupboard, where it won't draw attention to its state. That way, it won't be ashamed of its brokenness, and there won't be questions. It benefits everyone.)

With that, I open the newspaper, stiff from its ironing, and begin to examine the recent news. I parse over a rather frustrated letter to the editor from a Dr. Hathaway, who disagrees with the Sunday report on some medical procedure. I cannot understand the half of it, and so I flip to the crime section. 

_Earl Solves Murder String._

I do not need to see an artist's rendition of Cain to know what he has been up to. I knew I shouldn't have let them attend that party. 

* * *

> _  
> Cain_

 I have barely opened my latest book on poisons, when Uncle Neil summons me to the study. With all the careful movements that indicate his displeasure with me, he sets the newspaper down so that I can easily glimpse the headline. Oh. I didn't think the report would be circulating so soon, but given the high-profile nature of the case, that seems an unlikely hope now. Scanning the section, I frown at the way the artist has depicted me: sleeves rolled to my forearms, blood across my shirt, and the birds on my wrist, in front of a cowering crowd, as a woman, weeping, repents of her crimes. I suppress a sigh. That, I suppose, is what the papers call artistic license.  

 Giving it a second glance, I notice Jezabel's absence in it. Well, he _is_ a person of interest in a not insignificant number of murders in London, rightly so in the majority, no doubt, and so I can understand why he won't interact with the Yard. 

"You're in the papers," Uncle Neil begins, softly. "I had the impression that you, of all people, would have had the common sense not to make a spectacle of yourself."

I shrug, although I am beginning to feel defensive at his tone. "I would have been her next victim."

Neil steeples his fingers, a sure sign of his frustration. "Have you not considered the impact that your lifestyle has on the reputation of this family?"

 "I wasn't aware my actions could affect such a reputation," I counter, angry that he wants to pin the family's legacy on me. 

 He shakes his head. "You've never been careful, Cain. Mary will come of age soon enough. If you do not care for your own prospects, then think of hers. Who will present her at court, with rumors of her family's unsavory nature?" 

"Oscar." I am furious at his underhanded tactic, to use my love for my only sister against me. 

"He has been disinherited and is without a title."

"One of my cousins, then. They must be good for something."

Uncle Neil pauses, and in that, I know that he has kept something from me. My heart quickens from terror. 

"What are you keeping from me," I demand. Anger masking my fear. I stare at the window, misty from the recent rainfall—anything but look at him. 

"You've never been a favorite with the family," he begins, cautiously. 

"Yes, I'm quite aware of that."

"But the estate is entailed to you—and you alone." 

I drum my fingers against the wood of the windowsill, feeling defensive of my position in the family. "Are they bitter? Other people have hobbies."

 "There's talk that Alexis entailed it to you, because... it's all a ridiculous notion, of course."

"Because I'm just like him?' From Uncle Neil's reluctance, I gather that my guess is correct. "That's ludicrous. Mary is a child. Do they think I intend to make her my wife when she comes of age," I mock, unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone. 

"It's not Mary that they think you're carrying on with."

All the blood drains from me. "What do you mean?" I feel removed from my body, as the horror overcomes me. Surely not? 

Uncle Neil gives me a long, hard look. "I'm merely telling you that the family—" 

"The family _expects_ it?" I can hardly contain my terror. "That I've been sleeping around _with my brother_?"

 Uncle Neil pauses again. "I told you that this would be the inevitable result of your _decisions_. You only have yourself to blame for this."

I suppose word must have gotten out, with one of the maids or the underbutler. It's the price of having servants in a notorious house. 

But Uncle Neil wasn't there, with us. It was so pleasant to sleep beside another being, even if Jezabel did wake me frequently with his bizarre requests. The first time he did that, I had half a mind to tell him off for it, but his vulnerability disarmed me. I suppose that's how Cassian fell in love with him. One cannot help but be drawn in.

One night, not too long after we buried Cassian in the garden, he woke me up, incoherent and thrashing about. And I realized the power that only I have—if Father could do this to him, then I could undo it. Or at least amend it. And so I did what I do with Mary, when she cannot sleep from her nightmares, and what Riff did with me for several years; I took him into my arms and rocked him slightly, smoothing his hair and praying that this would not be taken as an advance and that he wouldn't snap and slit my throat with whatever was available. Ever since he killed Father with a pair of scissors, I have been always slightly wary. 

I knew I had gotten through when he relaxed into my embrace, leaning his head against my shoulder. The entire ordeal was exhausting, for I was acutely aware that I was the only one he had left, and part of me resented his vulnerability, resented that he couldn't keep himself together when that was my only option. But the softness of his form, when he finally fell asleep from my efforts and a little brandy, and the warmth of his hand on mine seemed a just reward.   

 When the dog came into our lives, I thought that it was the solution to our problem. Hadn't he told me numerous times how infinitely superior animals were to the human race? So, I took Uncle Neil's advice, and withdrew from his bed; though it pained me to sleep alone, I hoped that the dog would more that adequately serve as my replacement. But now, I am not so certain if I did right by him.

"I told them that such a thing was unlikely," Uncle Neil continues, delicately. 

"As it is!" Nausea tightens my throat, as I think of the way I almost gave in, the very first night we slept beside each other. "You have to believe me; I would never do such a thing!" I don't know whom I'm trying to convince. When Jezabel leaned close to me, his lips parted, my heart leapt in terror, for I knew then that I could not escape the family curse. But then he drew away abruptly, and I hated myself for seeing something that was not there. For thinking about transgressing against God in that dangerous moment.  That possibility that drove Father to sin and Mother to madness exists in me. 

Uncle Neil merely exhales, exasperated by my unseemly display. "You must be careful, Cain. You'll come of age in a few years, and what you do now will not be forgotten by then."

"You must believe me!" 

He says nothing in reply, and I nearly cry. Does no one have faith in me, that I will not become Father? That I will not inherit his ways? 

I draw myself back up, veiling my sadness in a cold demeanor. "Very well then." 

But I did almost have an affair with my brother, and that I cannot erase. I was dangerously close to being seduced by him, and although that is leagues away from what Father did to Mother, it still ends the same way. I would have guaranteed that one of us—or both—would have been shut into an asylum to keep that secret. As Mother was. Knowing all that he has left in his wake, I cannot be Father. Mine is a narrow path that I cannot afford to stray from. 

Uncle Neil exhales again. "Cain, as your legal guardian, I am the one held responsible for you. I have received no fewer than five letters, inquiring as to why I let you follow in your father's footsteps. Another five concern your brother. They're convinced that he plans to fight the entail, now that he holds sway over you."

This would be an utterly ludicrous proposition if I didn't know the rest of my family, and how easily they turn something innocuous into a terror to be rallied against. 

 "He doesn't," I retort. "He holds no influence over me, and we are not carrying on in that way." But I cannot contain the trembling in my voice, and sensing that my nerves are too badly frayed to continue, I move to leave him. As I reach the door, Uncle Neil calls out to me.

"Cain, I only want what's best for you. And that is to break away from your father's image."

 "Of course, you do," I retort, angry tears blurring my vision. "Everyone does."

* * *

> _  
> Jezabel_

The sky is blank with rain. Near the misty window, a frog creeps out, stretching one long leg, his throat pulsing with life. I have half a mind to take another walk in the rain, if only because those walks remind me of the times with Father, when I would set out at night, roaming the cobblestone catacombs, waiting for God or death. And to some unlucky souls, I was both. It was not uncommon for me to simply forget myself, in the opened body of a whore, or a thief, or a man who was a bit too familiar with me. I would watch that stranger caress the loops of intestines from a slashed gut and marvel at how blood complimented the grey of the London night. 

(That city, that Babylon, feeds on blood, after all.)

And now, there is only the expanse of farmlands around the Hargreaves's ancestral home, so far from the London residence. Under different circumstances, I might have called it home, but now I'm merely a stranger.  But can I know peace here? This is where Father cast himself into the sea, where he went against God, where—where he lived with Cain for twelve years. The time he spent away from me. 

 A Bible on the shelf catches my attention. Idly, I flip through it, a habit that I have never been able to  break. I know all of Genesis by heart, and so I skip it. Same with Leviticus. My hand shakes on Kings—the story of my namesake.  I want to tear the pages away, to remove the words and in doing so, erase my sin, but I am afraid of angering the Lord. I close the book again, before opening it to Proverbs. Something pleasant and to occupy my time.

  _"A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel."_

>  And for a moment, Cassandra reclines next to me, blood on his face. Not his own, never his own. His eyes survey my form, and he grins, pleased with his latest acquisition. I, on the other hand, am merely weary of all this physical interaction between us. I keep hoping that, at some point, he'll tire of this and let me return to Delilah, to return to all the gossip and rumors. It's not a secret that Father approved of Cassandra's behavior towards me, for he was the one who ordered me to give the man my support. 
> 
>  He brushes against me, drawing me closer to his bare form. I try to ignore it, with a coldness that I hope will dissuade him from continuing our encounter, but I am always wrong. Faintly amused, he seizes the Bible from my lap, smirking as he reads Proverbs 12:10 aloud. "Hmm. Can't see what you find in this dreck. You know what it says about people like us."
> 
> "People like you," I counter.
> 
>  He smiles, a Cheshire-cat smile full of teeth and unpleasant promises, and for a moment, I am truly afraid of this man. "I know everything about you," he replies, rubbing his hand along the back of my thigh. Marveling at the stickiness of the dried seed he has left behind. 
> 
> I give him my best level look. "One swallow doesn't make a summer."
> 
> Cassandra merely presses against the tell-tale beginnings of a bruise on my clavicle. When I suppress my pain, he takes my hand, turning it over in his own. "Such beauty," he remarks, a heaviness to his words that announces his stirring lust. Cassandra runs my fingertips across the blood on his cheek. My blood. Slowly, slowly, before placing them inside his mouth. 

 The words, neatly printed in thin rows, stare back at me, their meaning indecipherable now, but Cassandra is also gazing back at me as, as—

>  He pins me against the bed, beneath his weight. "You'll find, I fear, that you can never leave me." As he speaks, he moves against me, and I do not know what to make of it. Intellectually, I know this is an act of possession, nothing more than a physical interaction, but his warmth! His warmth is overwhelming, suffocating— 

I slam the Bible shut, but the act cannot block out the rest of the memory. No, I struggle against it, but—

>   —I am afraid of his wrath, but I also have not been treated like this since Father. There's a safety in being treating this way: it's familiar and painful, and I can easily predict the outcome. If I am lucky, I will die at his hands; if I am not, he will meet his end at mine. I hardly care either way. He shudders, bruising my wrists in his ecstasy; there is only the stirring of heat, terrible, coiling heat, before I become aware of myself again. Loosening his hold, he sighs against my throat, still trembling. 
> 
>  "You can't distinguish between fear and love, can you?"

I nearly vomit at the memory of his seed within me. Then, the act was nearly habitual, something done with disinterest, but now, it is a horror. I want to grab something—anything—and hack away at the pieces of me he touched. (But then, there would be nothing left. Perhaps that what I want. To be nothing at last.) More than anything, I am ashamed. I want to put the entire affair in the past, but it won't go quietly. Perhaps, this is his revenge—that he might live in my memories even after I claimed his life.  

A sordid immortality. 

I wonder, would I live in Cain's memory, if he had watched me die, as I watched Cassandra? Would I haunt him with my just words and deeds, if I had forced him to stain his hands with my blood? Not for the first time I wonder what would have happened if Cassian had not shoved me so rudely to the ground. Would I have found peace? Can I ever know peace?

 Cain returns from his chat with Neil, a distinct drop in his shoulders, and I give him an inquisitive glance. He shakes his head, and annoyed, I cannot return to my fantasies, for wondering what has affected him so. (Not that it bothers me, but rather out of intellectual curiosity.) 

 I try to resume my study of the biblical passage that has chosen me today, but now it accuses me. Is that what Cain thinks of me, as well? That I am wicked and cruel and unchanging? No, his evasion is something else, something that reminds me that he is still the wanted son. He wants to be rid of me, I can see it so clearly now. He does not cherish the scandal that comes from my presence, which is still so difficult to explain away. There are only a few reasons why the eldest son does not inherit—and none of them are pleasant. 

Cain scans over his book, gripping the cover more tightly than he needs to. His finger joints are white with stress, and I wonder if he is about to become angry. The idea frightens and thrills me, for I'm afraid of the lull. This peace is dangerous, because the only moments of tranquility at Delilah were those before Father's latest plans made themselves known. If I could not escape his plans, then I could control when they came. It's almost comforting to be beaten, and to know that this, this was what I chose. My choice.  

I need this conflict, if only to establish that distance between us, because I both long for and fear this closeness between us.

"What did Neil say to you?" I ask.  

"Leave it, Jezabel." His words are clipped. 

This will be easier than anticipated, because the destructive part of me _always_ prevails.  

"Did he tell you to stay out of the papers?" I ask nonchalantly, as I pretend to examine the title page of the Bible. It was printed overseas, in Massachusetts. How strange that it came to be here, in Cornwall. How fitting that the wanderers should find each other.

"Were you eavesdropping?" Cain demands, finally setting the book aside with more effort than he needs to. Good. 

I shake my head. "It's obvious. He wants a quiet life, and you want adventure. Who does he want you to marry this week?"

Cain pauses, struggles with something. "He want me to give up everything for Mary. My poisons, my mysteries. Everything. Or she's unlikely to be well-received when she comes of age."

His hesitation suggests that this is only partially what they discussed. The rest was probably about me. Neil never stops fretting about me; I suspect he can't figure out what to do with the murderer of his not-so-beloved cousin. Still, I press on. "Don't. Who cares if high society likes her or not?"

"She's your sister!" A look of incredulousness passes over his beautiful features. But what goes unspoken between us is how untrue his claim is. She has no more of Father's blood than a goat does. He changes tactics, a pleading undertone to his voice. "Don't you care for her in the slightest?" 

"Hardly." It's cold, but true. I care no more for her than any other filthy human. I continue, sensing my advantage. "And if you really cared for her, you'd let her study science. She has a gift for it."

"Not this again!" He throws his hands up. "She'd be an outcast. Can't you think past yourself?"

"You certainly can't." 

 A wounded look moves across his face, and in that moment, I am deeply ashamed of myself. His hands tremble, and he shakes his head slightly from anger. "Goddammnit, Jezabel. You're really something." He looks at me, as if he has never truly seen me before. A stare fraught with something that I cannot determine. I watch him leave, angry and satisfied that he has decided to leave me. There. Now, he certainly won't forget the distance between us. 

 But his anger does not suffice. I need him to hurt me, to put an end to this maddening peace. My skin is painfully oversensitive again, and I do not know how to make it cease. How ironic: I can solve everything save this. I contemplate hitting myself to see if that would bring me any relief, but quickly decide against it. If Neil or any of the servants were to walk into such a sight, I'd find myself in the nearest asylum by nightfall. And then I would have considerably more problems than I do now. 

I settle back into the chair, painfully aware of being a lost cause. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a long one, because I had to establish conflict here. Also, Victorian newspapers are hilarious. Go read some. Seriously. It's that beautiful blend of melodrama and sensationalism. I'm also trying to work in some humor here, because it's not all suffering. Just mostly suffering.
> 
> So, entailment, in case you all aren't familiar with it or Downton Abbey, is the practice of having a title and estate go to the eldest (legitimate) son or the nearest legitimate male relative. I've always figured that the Hargreaves were ludicrously wealthy, and thus concerned with matters like that. 
> 
> As always, thank you for continuing to read this! My eternal thanks to you! I say it every time, but I mean it every time.


	6. Syntomeida epilais

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's suffering time, lovelies.

> _Mary_

My knees knock together in shame, as I steal away to my nursery, trying to stifle my sobs. I have made Big Brother sad with my selfishness. But the Doctor is wrong: I love the secrets of the natural world not for any secret passion, but because Riff loved them. And by studying them, I take a piece of him back from the emptiness.

 Like a seashell. 

The medical book, with all of his annotations in faded pencil, hides behind _A Little Princess_ and _Black Beauty_ on my shelf. And in my hands, I have the only part of him that I salvaged before his room was cleared out. A battered leather cover, rough under my touch, and yet so dear to me.

And in that moment I choose between Riff and Big Brother. 

I pull back the fire screen, and move to toss the book into the gaping flames—in the moment that it sprawls onto the embers, opening to meet the flares, my heart cries that I have chosen wrongly. Its pages flicker against the sudden heat, unfurling, unraveling, undone.

I slam the screen back in place. My tears reducing the bedroom to an underwater scene. My own sacrifice. And just like that, Riff is dead again, reduced to a little pile of ashes and regret.  

* * *

>    _Cain_

I try to compose myself, as my throat tightens in fear. I have been so careless. So foolishly careless in my grief. Of course, the rest of the family would not take kindly to the illegitimate son, and yet, I cannot accept the plan Uncle Neil has outlined to address the problem. I must see the evidence myself, and so I wait until Uncle Neil has left to oversee some trifle, before stealing into his study. Undoing the desk lock with a twist of a hairpin (a trick Mary showed me, a mischievous sparkle in her eye). At the letters, nestled under some spare parchment, my heart stills. "Bastard son" and "the calamity child" leap at me from my first glance; even as my hands shake, I force myself to read on:

"Were you not aware of the consequences of having A__'s bastard son live with C__? You and I both know what A__ was capable of, and if you had just taken the family's advice, we would not be in this predicament." 

"If he fights the entail, the estate will be broken and the title lost. And you, dear cousin, will be remembered as the one who dropped the torch." 

"How is it that you cannot keep a tighter rein over C__? K__ sent me the _Times_..."

"I wonder, why you thought it fit to allow C__ to parade himself in the papers as if he were a dog-and-pony show? You assured me that you had him under control..." 

"...positively horrified at C__'s display in the recent murders... sordid affairs for a sordid child. He was born under an ill star..."

"...carrying on as if they lived in a penny dreadful. Do you have any inkling of how mortified I was to explain that my nephew had lowered himself to playing a second-rate Sherlock Holmes? The indignity of it all?" 

"...and then what are you going to do about J__? You told me he had taken a post in the village, but you forget that he has A__'s blood in his veins. That man never stayed quiet for long, and his bastard's no different..."

"Please don't tell me you intend to adopt J__ as you did with M__. It was an indulgence with the girl, but you'll jeopardize the title if you allow the illegitimate son, let alone a doctor, to inherit. Between you and C__, I can hardly tell who wants to ruin the family more..."

"That boy is dangerous, Neil. You and I both know what runs in his veins..."

 _Dangerous_ burrows into my skin, an old insult, an old companion. An old reminder of my inhumanity.

In Father's study, on the mantle is a moth enclosed in glass. An unholy blue that neither time or death has stolen from it.  _Syntomeida epilais._ One of the insects from the tropics that fed on oleander leaves; when I asked Father how it could do such a thing and live, he dipped his pen in ink and continued to write. "Because it's poisonous, like you," he replied, without averting his gaze from his work. "God made all His poisonous creatures alike."

(Dangerous like me.)

And in that moment, poisonous boy met poisonous insect, and  _Syntomeida epilais_ lodged in my chest: a kinship and a warning. Both in a cage to keep our poison contained. 

Once I sought refuge in that damning judgement of dangerous, finding a certain solace in my distance from humanity, but even with my resolve, I could not—and cannot—keep that judgement from filtering into my daily life; I found myself adjusting my actions and my self-perception for it, ever so slightly. As  _dangerous_ split my world into good and poisonous. Soiled and innocent. And _dangerous_  slowly stripped me of the humanity I refused and clung to. In all my angry isolation, I pretended to care little for the family opinion of me. Adding to the family collection of poisons out of spite—and out of an acknowledgment of my poisonous nature. But I am alone now, against the family that wanted me smothered in the cradle. (A little coffin and a little secret and a little solution.)

At first, I considered ignoring the gossip circulating about us, and ignoring the question it returned to my mind. But as I sought the pleasures of the flesh as a distraction from the worry in my head and the weight in my heart, that question returned, standing in the doorway. Unacknowledged, but unwilling to depart. As she sighed under me, as limbs met limbs, and our skins  were set alight, I could not help but wonder about my brother. Would his hair lay as heavy as hers against my arm? Would his limbs against mine be as pleasant? Would his moans stir the same low heat within me as hers? 

Although it was merely a wandering thought, I knew then what I had tried to erase: my blood calls out for its own. I have Father within me, hiding behind my eyes. My capacity for such evil horrified me, and disgust burned my throat at such contemplation, for then I knew why Father took a mistress. A harmless substitute for the object of desire. But even now, I do not know if it is desire that moves me so, because I have lain next to him without such stirrings. What else, then, could it be? Ever since Uncle Neil told me about that horrid rumor, nothing else has occupied my thoughts. I have been afraid to leave my bed at night, if only for the reason that I might find myself at his door. 

And even if I spend the rest of my cursed existence in this Sisyphean task, that alone will not put the rumors to rest. There will be worse ones to come, even nastier ones, and one day, they will stumble upon the truth. No, I must end this, for both of us. I might wear Father's face, but I can escape his fate. How long can I hold out, before I ruin him the way that Father ruined Mother? (The way Father ruined us?) 

It's easy to make resolutions, but more difficult to sustain them. Jezabel is so difficult to reach, still so suspicious of me and my intentions, as if he knows how easily I can satisfy the poisonous moth within me. And that frightens me beyond any terror I have known. I cannot outrun my nature, and I swore to him that I would never reenact such a sin with him. 

To fight this urge for the remainder of my life is all I have left, and yet, I am acutely aware of the impossible weight of it all. and Jezabel does not make my task any lighter, with his half-seduction that opened the door to sin. And his distrustful words. And his desire to push everyone away, to sulk in his unhappiness. 

And I have made my decision now, having seen the evidence of my family's hatred. This is only the beginning of their crusade against us. They will drive us apart, if only to quell a fear that runs deep. And so, I will give in, because I am not enough to deal with Jezabel's hostility; once I thought I could reach him, but I was wrong. Riff would be ashamed of me, but I will never possess his gentle hand nor a fraction of his kindness. I have come to the end of my resources. Is my decision, then, a kind of love, or is it selfishness? Is it kinder to force Jezabel to exist in a world that will be hostile to him, the cruel world of the aristocracy—ruled by words and reputation and birth—or find one softer and more suitable? (And shut him away from the rest of the world, my mind adds, with a cruel assurance. No more ugly questions, no more rumors to put to rest.)

And is it not better for him to live apart, but free, than anything else the family will decide for him? He can manage apart from me, with a little guidance. He'll have a housekeeper to see to his needs, and a cook, and a small place of his own, cozy and safe with the dog—and isn't that all one needs in the end?  

 (And even as I try to convince myself, I know better. Underneath it all, I cannot relinquish my fear of him, nor can I escape the knowledge that I would not take this route with Mary. Perhaps even still, there are degrees of kinship, sharp, little divides that mark what happens to whom.)

* * *

 I find him in one of the studies, sunlight—still soft from the recent rain—draped around him, as he composes yet another letter. (With whom is he in correspondence? Surely not Delilah? But who else, then?) The light catches in the curve of his lashes. He frowns at the paper before him, crossing out a line. I watch him, unable to bring myself to end this, struck by the sudden awareness that this moment can never be again. But just as I relish its fragility, the moment breaks: he glances up, no doubt alerted to my presence by my footfall. Regarding me quietly, though slightly guarded from our recent quarrel. And as he tilts his head to get a better look at me, I am overcome by his delicate beauty—not that of one of Mary's dolls, no. The effervescent beauty of a winter night, all sharp, thin lines. 

And in that awe lies terror.

This cannot be. I cannot allow it. This will end in ruin for both of us, should this continue unchecked. And yet, my resolution pains me, even as it promises me relief from the quiet fears I have lived under this past year. Whose happiness am I sacrificing here? 

"You must be so bored with the country hospital," I begin. When he shrugs, having cut my words apart and found no threat in them, I press on. "Have you considered the hospital at Manchester? They're have a post open for a skilled physician."

Frowning, he looks as though he wants to say something, but settles for silence, instead twisting his pen. A slight suspicion across his face. 

"You could take the dog—Cassian—and you'd be very happy there."

 He gives me a questioning look, as if he has deduced why I cannot have him around. "Why should I? The village is happy with me."

"I just want what's best for you," I reply, slightly defensive. And what's best for him is to put as many miles as possible between us. "I already made arrangements for you to meet with the hospital director. It will be good for you." Uneasy, I shift slightly. "I talked it over with Uncle Neil, and he agrees."

A coldness comes over him. "Oh," he says in a low, dangerous tone. "That's what this is about." 

"You'll be happy," I insist, hardly believing my own words, and slightly irritated by his implication that I am easily swayed by Uncle Neil's opinion.

Jezabel stares hard at the window, tense and breathing shallowly. As if he is trying to make sense of it all. Of what has been decided behind his back. His teacup rattles against its saucer, as he struggles with peacefully setting the cup down, before seizing it with a wild abandon. And before I am fully cognizant of the situation, the tea cup shatters next to me. A chip of bone china hits my sleeve, leaving a splatter of undrunk tea. Half a rabbit, frozen mid-leap, knocks against my shoe. 

I nearly bolt at this old show of violence, half hoping his next move will be to end the cause of my pain. "Isn't this what you want?" I ask, half-baffled by his unsightly display. I had not thought that he would react so strongly. A sharp word or two, certainly. If he wanted something else, then why push me away?

But his regression is reassuring, in that we can circle back to how we used be. Our old ways. A struggle of fear and hatred. (But can that be, I wonder? Can I undo everything between us? Or are we different for it?) 

And in the remnants of the day, the light changes the broken china into unmelting shards of ice. 

 I half expect him to start throwing the rest of the china, or to shout at me and blame me for the sins of Father and his own, but to my surprise, he just stares at whatever he was composing, as if attempting to lose himself in it. And then, without taking his gaze from it, he starts to cry, as if I have broken something deep inside. As if his heart is broken. Remorse leaps to my lips, but resolve keeps me silent. My limbs weaken in shame, and I cannot tear myself from the sight. Even now, there is an element of the surreal in his tears, a signifier of humanity, and yet, I was convinced for so long that he could not be human. 

 He crumpled his unfinished letter, shaking his head. "Go," he orders, hoarsely. "Leave me alone."

I am afraid of what I have done, but what did I expect from him? That he would, overnight, mend his ways and we would become the family we never were, in Father's absence? Life is not given to such neat endings; rather, they are messy and unresolved and deeply ugly. Already, relief tugs at me, that this affair is finally finished, that I can put aside all the fears borne of his presence. I am done with his unpredictability and the terror that comes with it.

Separation is the price that both of us must pay, but one of us will pay the greater share.

Father named me well.

I finally understand Jezabel's first words to me, that he loved me so much that he wanted me dead: neither of us can untangle this mixture of love and resentment and fear that we are heir to. It all exists in a Gordian knot that I cannot unmake, because I do not know what I will find pale and shuddering at its heart. We can tuck it away on the shelf for a while, but in the end, it will have its due. 

 _Dangerous_ settles in my chest, its soft wings furling. Poison on its mouth, and a burning in its heart. And Father laughs in my ear, laughs that he won after all.

* * *

>   _Jezabel_

I make my final rounds in the village hospital, hardly pretending to care about what ailment presents itself to me. An air of finality present. The end of my little reprieve here. After all we had been through.

(But the land east of Eden was Cain's, after all. Always Cain's—and his alone.)

My usefulness has met its end, as it tends to do. I am strangely devoid of feeling, for having my suspicions confirmed. I pushed him away, pushed everyone away, and no one pushed back. Not even Cassian returns when I push him away, even though I desperately want him to see through my actions. To prove that I am wanted. 

It is a terrible existence to be unwanted. If my only living relative, the one who knows me almost as well as Father did, can see just how much of a waste I am, what else can I expect from the rest of humanity? More than anything, I am aware of how all my efforts were in vain. I am the only unchanging thing in this world—and I know what fate awaits those that cannot change. What awaits dead things. 

Back in my office, the light straggles past the clouds, past the curtains, past the sand dollar propped onto the windowsill. I frown, for I did not put it there. It must have been Mary's doing. The sea urchin is as smooth as bone, save for the daisy pattern on one side that marks where its jaw used to be. Once, it was brimming with life in its alien world so far from this one, its spines fluttering against the water, and now, the only proof of its existence is its endoskeleton.

The inescapable march of time. 

I remember how Mary pressed it into my hand, when we visited the seashore. A hesitant shyness so foreign to her cheerful demeanor. And then she ran away, into the onslaught of the waves. Laughing away her ever-present fear of me. Was her gift borne of some semblance of sisterly love for me, or a need to prove to herself that her fears do not govern her life, as she did with the flowers she left in my room so long ago? Her present evoked an uncertainty in me, that she might still put aside her fears, and then I might have what? A little sister to dote upon? But I cannot feign any affection for her. On a good day, she is tolerable; on a bad one, a boundless source of hatred and envy. 

I want to break her gift, like I did with the teacup—oh, how wonderfully thrilling it was, to evoke Cain's wide eyes of fear. To remind him that I am not his helpless child, at his mercy and his will. And yet, as I threw it, I was ashamed of myself for giving into the urges I had repressed for almost a year now. The sand dollar lies light in my hand, easily broken, and yet, I cannot bring myself to ruin its perfect symmetry. (Perhaps because it is the remains of an innocent.)

 I look at this voiceless creature, and unable to destroy it, set it back to face the setting sun. It will not go with me, of that I am certain; I do not want what could have been to haunt me, for soon enough, I'll be watching the sunset from a new place, a new office. But still alone. 

Always alone.

(With no one to push back.)

Cassian will follow me to my death, but the adoration in his eyes sickens and repulses me; I fear his unconditional love, for one day he'll realize my true, unchanging nature, and abandon me. It's only a matter of time, so I must abandon him before he abandons me. Father's knowing disdain and disappointment in his eyes. But that's how I am, in the end. A stagnant, ugly thing in a world that is ever out of my reach.

There is blood on my hands, again. It beads around the hole I have unconsciously dug into my finger, before sliding away and away and away. Carrying my awareness with it.The emptiness is almost comforting.  

And in the blissful nothingness that lies between me and my being, Cassandra returns.  ( _"You can't distinguish between love and fear, can you?")_ They were not his own, but rather Father's. Cassandra relished parroting back Father's words to me, as if to prove to me that he now shared my mind. Or perhaps he thought he would win my devotion if he filled his mouth with the observations of the only person I ever loved.

But these words were Father's.

(His lips twisted at a corner into a smirk. Half-proud of his handiwork, and half-mocking.)

I frown, as I try to remember. Digging my way to remembrance. I can hold all the little facets of his face—his mocking eyes, his skin as cold as porcelain—but the whole of his face, I cannot remember any longer. I try to reassure myself that I have not forgotten his face—the face of my God—and it will return. It must, or I will be no better than Cain. My only claim to Father is one of devotion, for I have nothing else he wanted. 

My thoughts are rudely interrupted by one of the nurses, notes in hand. I hide the evidence of my unfaithfulness and my madness in the wide pockets of my physician's coat. There are ways to keep others away, steep, pitted walls of titles and degrees and silence. Built up one stone at a time. A white coat can be just as insurmountable as a title and an estate.

Unaware of my deceit, she leads me over to a new patient. I cannot hold onto any of her words, as she rambles on. It hardly matters what she says anyhow, for the initial symptoms are usually misreported.She draws back the white curtain, and my breath stills.

 How?

_("You'll find, I fear, that you can never leave me.")_

Cassandra's sea-grey eyes watch me. Before I can delegate this task to my assistant, the nurse has left. I glance around the room: only the groans of patients reach me. Desperately wishing for the fog to envelope me, I return to the task at hand. Searching his face for anything that does not remind me of Cassandra. Not his eyes, nor his thin lips. But the shape of the face is faintly wrong, and so I cling to that as I begin my examination. As I take his pulse, trying to drown my fears in the steady toll of his heart, he puts his hand—

>  Cassandra leans down to stroke my hand. In anyone else,  this might be taken for a gesture of tenderness, but the way he presses his fingers against mine, interlacing them in a promise, dispels that idea. This is about power—albeit a crude display. "How does it feel to have a new master, love? I won the bet."
> 
> I almost spit in his face, in front of his footmen all in a row, but I resist the urge in favor of a coldly seductive smile. "So it seems," I reply, as I remove his hand from mine. 

 "Doctor," the man begins, his hand on my arm. "I've been having a pain in my left arm ever since—"

I cannot hear the rest of his words over the sea of my heart. The blood drains from my face, and I pray he does not notice me.  I nod, my throat closed, as I roll up his sleeve. His tendons tighten under my light touch, as I search for any sign of a broken bone. 

But the past carries on, unable to be stopped. As it always has.  

> The servants leave us alone, and I mask the trembling of my legs with a cold self-assurance. The worst parts always come when we are alone, with no one to see and no one to report. Cassandra surveys me over his wineglass, a faint smile on his lips. I stare back, sullenly, unwilling to play the hapless victim of Cassandra's fantasies. 
> 
>  Without warning, the contents of Cassandra's wineglass darkens the wallpaper, and I am watching that stranger offer no resistance, as Cassandra seizes him by his shoulders, screaming Father's words at him. And then, just as soon as it began, a feverish kiss—desperate and possessive. 
> 
> Cassandra relinquishes his hold on me; I nearly collapse onto the floor. 
> 
> "Why must you be so difficult, love?"
> 
>  And I know that this has never been about the physical acts between us. The beatings and the bloodshed. In that moment, I almost pity him, this sad, arrogant fool forever in search for someone permanent—someone who will be his entirely. 
> 
> My semblance of sympathy, however, vanishes when he strikes me so hard that I regain consciousness on the floor, with a charming view of the carved table leg. It's a minor miracle that I haven't sustained damage from a concussion yet. What a pity: if his blow had landed a bit more to the left, he would have fractured one of the weaker parts of my skull and killed me for certain. 
> 
> But I suppose he didn't want to mar my _pretty_ face. 
> 
> "You're enjoying this," he accuses, in between pants. "You get all bothered by violence, don't you?"

 "A sprain," I hear someone say. "Get some rest, and no heavy lifting for a month."

Relief shows on Not-Cassandra's face, and I retreat, leaving him with a slip of paper he can barely read for the nurse.

Once the door closes behind me, my resolve unravels as the past demands its due. I have never left the ornate room Cassandra kept me in. Its velvet curtains as heavy as the secrets he left me with. Even now, the red walls surround me. He swore I would never escape him.

 And I never will. 

 When he left me, after the first time I ate of the tree of good and evil, after the fog lifted, after I become aware of just what we had done, a wild fear seized me—the vision of the hell that awaited me for my transgressions. I threw myself onto the bed, feverishly praying for God to forgive me, as Leviticus ran through my mind like a wildfire and Cassandra's seed seared the back of my thigh. I could justify what occurred between Father and me as part of my duty to honor him, as Father told me the first night he showed me how to win his affections, but what happened between Cassandra and me was entirely of the flesh. If only God could overlook this sin—and all the others that I could not refrain from. No, that is an impossibility, for true forgiveness requires repentance, and for _those_ sins—the sins of life-taking—I am not. 

But where was He when I needed him? Where was He when Snark died? Where was He when Father showed me how to belong to him, no matter how brief? Was He watching and laughing with Father? I suppose He, too, must know how dirty and sinful I am.

And in that moment, Cassandra smiles, blackberry-red stains on his lips to match the blackberry-red mark on my wrist. ("Whores are bought, love. You were given freely.")

It all tangles together, a blend of _warmth_ and sex and pain; for the longest time, none of it meant anything, save the first night back. The night when my fingers could no longer undo the buttons, and the bath water waited, the steam promising an ineffective exorcism. And I was suddenly aware of the divide between me and the rest of the world. Another wall, another sin, all equally insurmountable. 

None of it bothered me the way that it does here, with Cain. At Delilah, there was always a project to slowly destroy myself over for the faintest of praise or a silent dismissal. But here, there is only the quiet, the endless, judging quiet. And in that quiet, I remember too much, and my memories turn on me, taking a new form, a new horror, when they come forth. The commonplace becomes an explainable horror.   

Shadows stretch on the wall, and overwhelming paranoia seizes me, the strange certainty that Cassandra is _here_ , alive, and about to walk into the room. Rationally, I know it is an impossibility _and_   an illogical notion, but that fails to lodge my wild fear. In my mind's eye, he strolls up to the door, blood against his starched shirt, his fingers curled around the cat o'nine tails. If he's already there, then it's too late to flee; I should hide—but where? The adjourning closet with the medical supplies? The desk? Or should I just remain here and hope that God delivers me from him? 

I hide under the desk, eyes shut against the words I cannot escape, and yet alert to all the little sounds that announce someone's arrival. Praying that he does not open the door, and above all, afraid of my terror that drives me even as I recognize how illogical it is.

And to my horror, the door opens.

He is here. He's _here_ , and I'm trapped. He's **here** , and he will take me back to the red room that smelled of oranges and iron. Oranges with cloves jutting out like quills. (All the better to hide the smell of spilt iron.) A warning and a promise: this is a place for _kept_ things, trapped things.

Should I fight him, with my last resolve, fight him for the freedom that frightens me, or do I give in? Hope for mercy from the man who broke his horse's ankles just to savor my misery?

"Doctor?" A woman's voice, I realize, my heart jostling in fear. The head nurse, whose name eludes me. When she receives no reply, she mutters something to herself, and turning on her heel, leaves me to my quivering shame.  

It is night before I move from my hiding place. This will never end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The suffering continues. The moth mentioned in this chapter is very real and very beautiful. Go look it up. 
> 
> As always, my eternal gratitude to my readers. I'd love to hear from you!


	7. By the Seashore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, some of you may be wondering where I am going with this. The outline knows, folks.  
> Oh! And more Cassian this chapter. Finally. The poor dude's transcended death—and this series's main antagonist, time—and it's taken almost 30k words before he gets to feature prominently. And I feel really sad for him now. Actually, if you add up the word count, it's something like 70k words. Poor dude.

> _Jezabel_

I have what I thought I wanted, together with the knowledge I was wrong to want it. That distance between Cain and me, safe and sterile, ensues again, and so my exile continues. My position is the only variable in the household: Mary is bonded, if not by blood, then under the law, which is more than I have. As the bastard child of a woman long dead, I inherit nothing, save the knowledge that I was never enough. Not enough of Father to be his in name, not enough of Mother to be protected by her family, not enough to be with Cain. 

I suppose the family must be behind this, but what do I care? 

If Cain is so ready to acquiesce to the will of the family, _his_ family, then he must have already grown weary of me. What pains me more than his betrayal is the absence that is left by it. I had put something akin to hope into my interactions with him, that for the first time since Snark, I wouldn't be alone.  But I was wrong. Even with Snark, I was painfully alone. And nothing has changed: what left cannot return. 

(Can love, like selfhood, be measured only by loss? By the aching photographic negative of what used to be?)

My time with Cain is at an end, and it strikes me as sad, that I should be unwanted again. Unloved and unwanted. 

The pale light of the morning fails to comfort me, and only the impossible distance between the estate and the forest it borders catches my eye. The sense of space lingers throughout the mansion: from the maids who scurry from room to room, pretending not to exist, to the valets who only nod and agree. The patients who see only their reprieve from death in me, and the women who find an invitation to the notorious Hargreaves manor in my unmarried state. 

I may as well be in the underground laboratories at Delilah for all my isolation. But this is worse, somehow. There, I could hate the dregs of the earth alone, but here, I am forced to confront the realization that I am marked. Marked in a way that Cain will never be. 

He is indispensable to the family—and I am not. 

That strange terror comes over me again, that something horrific awaits me outside, but only the courtyard, empty and still in the morning air, greets me. Yet, the feeling does not subside. That dreadful anticipation that my mind fills with horrors. Father, half-dead. Skinned lambs, strung up to bleed out.

( _Paranoia_.  _Keep that up_ , my inner voice begins, _and you'll be talking to people who aren't there next._ )

I brush it off, despite my unease, and if Neil notices that I linger a bit too long at the window, he says nothing on it. Cassian disappears under the tablecloth, to curl around a table leg, no doubt. The light casts a bleaching shadow across the room, and I find a seat near it, if only to warm myself with the memories of the forest with it. 

Cassian rests near me, placing a slight weight against my legs. It's strangely reassuring, and the unnameable dread lessens: I no longer consider checking the window again. Instead, I try to forget myself in my new, unpleasant task—breakfast. 

( _What a shame_ , it continues. _To last this long under Father, almost twenty years under a coward and a fool,  and then fall apart so quickly without him. But that's how you were made, right? Without him, what's left to define yourself by?_ )

Neil gives me a strange look, one I could almost mistake for worry, before returning to his newspaper. And then I realize what drew his attention: hot tea pools in the saucer, dripping onto my hand, darkening the tablecloth. I must have spilled it; it's so difficult to keep track of everything today. My insides are raw, as if my skin has been scraped away. Exposing my ugly secrets. I wipe the split tea away, but spots of reddened skin remain, infuriatingly. Reminding me of my inability to present a passable facade. 

(And if I cannot claim that, then what else do I have?)

Embarrassment burns at me, producing an unpleasant warmth in my face at my show of artlessness in front of Neil, my inability to blend into the strict world of the aristocracy. But then, again, I suppose that, as the resident bastard son, I will never be a part of that regardless.

Another insurmountable distance.

Neil, however, does not seem to take notice of me, perhaps thinking it tactful to let my show of ineptitude go unremarked upon. His decision, however, fails to alleviate any of my shame. 

( _Do you think Cain knows? He must. He knows that you're going mad. That's why he won't be around you. He knows. They all do._ )

I almost want to quit my task, to leave without breakfast, but then there would be _talk_. And I am so weary of talk. At my inaction, Cassian nudges me. 

(Go on, Doctor. You don't want to be here all day, now.) 

I have half a mind to give him a sharp reminder that I am no child in need of his guidance, but some vestige of an old sadness silences me. 

( _They're all waiting._ )

 "Have you read the article on Yorkshire already? They're having a lamb show," Neil begins, never taking his gaze off the newspaper. "And there's another letter to the editor you might like."  

It's almost thoughtful, the way he tries to engage me with something he thinks will interest me. Almost paternal.  And I seize any chance to distract myself. 

"Oh?" 

"Yes, it's the Hathaway fellow. Third letter printed this month. He keeps correcting the editor about the medical errors in the paper." He shakes his head a little. "Something on surgical techniques. It's all terribly complex."

"The editor was wrong to suggest that regular sewing needles could substitute for surgical ones." I pause, relishing his stunned stare. "Needles with eyes larger than the tip causes damage to the tissue as they're pulled though." 

Neil opens his mouth, as if about to ask another question, but closes it again, faintly shaking his head. As if he has adjusted his impression of me. "Well," he says, shaking out the newspaper. "Well."

I smile to myself, strangely pleased that I am not so predictable. Somehow, breakfast does not seem so daunting any more.  A peaceful silence falls between us, periodically broken by Cassian's sighs and the rattling of silver. I am almost sad that I will have to leave this, and as I pour another cup of tea, Neil, without glancing up from his newspaper, breaks off a piece of sausage and tosses it under the table. His hand shiny with grease. 

 I almost laugh at his show of bad manners, and even more so, the thought that Neil, Cain's weary guardian, should indulge himself so! And under the amusement is the knowledge that this can be no more.

It bothers me more than it should. 

* * *

 Riff's replacement, the newly promoted underbutler, dolorously announces the arrival of the post. A small bundle of letters for Neil on the silver tray, likely more complaints from the family about the _bastard son._

I rarely get anything by post that is not love-stricken sonnets or locks of hair or promises to wed in spite of my relatively low status. Rarely anything from the family. Once I received a worried letter from a distant aunt who wanted to know why Father named his first-born son after _a woman of ill-repute_. I quickly informed her that, as a man of science, I was ready to exhume his corpse and resurrect it—all to answer her question. It was less a joke, than a veiled suggestion of what I would do if I could only obtain Father's corpse (But anticipating this, Cain and Neil have concealed the location from me.)

I didn't get any more letters after that, but I did get "morbid" and "ill-bred" attached to my name in her subsequent frenzy of letters to Neil. And Neil told me, in a deeply frustrated, well-worn tone, to stop being so disagreeable and finding my sources of amusement in the family. 

To my surprise, the butler lowers the tray towards me, a single letter lying docilely beside the letter opener.

It's from Scotland Yard. 

I doubt it's a summons to their headquarters, to answer for a dozen or so murders, some of them quite _entertaining_ , but the butler regards me with a certain resolve that informs me that the minutiae of my reaction will be methodically analysed in the servants' quarters. Reminding me that, for all the blood that runs in my veins, I am still a stranger here.

And so, I stare back at him, hardly caring how rude and crass it is of me to do so.  I slit open the letter, never averting my gaze. Taking pleasure in the way he blanches, ever so slightly, from my quietly violent act. I bring the letter opener to my lips, pressing the flat side of the blade against my lower lip, carefully, slowly. Like a scalpel.

Neil, absorbed in today's gossip, fortunately does not take note. (What do I care what Neil thinks of me? I was never his.)

With an air of nonchalance, I return the blade, a faint clang breaking the silence between us. There. Let them talk about _that_ display. Let them spread their little rumors about my ill-bred nature. 

(Lord Hargreaves's bastard brother swallows knives. Mad as a loon. Talks to animals, wears his hair long—) 

Cassian, however, sleepily lifts his head. (Goddamnit, Doctor. Quit bullying people.)

I roll my eyes, waiting for the butler to leave so that I can talk to Cassian _without_ being seen as the resident lunatic. Fortunately, he relents after a few minutes into today's struggle, and when the door closes, I eagerly unfold the letter, the lightness of anticipation in my head.

This must be the response to my invitation to rehome the parrots with me. I try to suppress the rankling of anger within me—that the _servants_ are so presumptuous as to remind me of my status—instead focusing on how pleasant it will to have two plump parrots to hold and love. (Since I am leaving, it hardly matters if Neil will let me keep them.) I'll feed them all the bread that they'd desire, and no more will they know blood and terror. No, not with me. Although I hold no claim to being a righteous man, I do care for the lives of the sinless. The stainless. I'll teach them words more fitting, soft words—not those murderous ones. They'll know peace with me.

I wonder when the Yard'll want me to pick them up.  As soon as possible, no doubt.

Cassian places a paw on my leg, peeking at the letter, and without averting my gaze, I reply, "You can't even read." 

An exasperated exhale is my only answer. Neil shuffles some letters around, pointedly ignoring my conversations with Cassian. He's come to an uneasy acceptance of them, seeing them as a benign manifestation of my _unfortunate nature,_ as his preferred euphemism goes. 

Noting the short reply, I quickly read it:

  _We have received your inquiry, as to the parrots._

_They are to be put down as dangerous beasts, in accordance with the Animal Act of 1798._

 It ends with a careless signature, the mark of one who answers letters all day long.I read it again, and then again, desperately hoping that my eyes have deceived me. Nothing changes. And with that, I sink into the chair, suddenly numb to the rest of the world, save the unbearable weight of the letter. 

 Time skips in leaps, like a stone thrown against the water's surface: Mary and Oscar roam the garden one moment, and the next, Neil is receiving a caller. It's disjointed, and not even the weight of Cassian's body against mine can return time to how it was. Neil returns to shuffle through his letters, returning to a particularly lengthy one. He taps at it, deep in thought, unhappiness on his features. 

And then the stone sinks.  

"You were missing for several hours at the hospital a few days ago." A statement with no room for denial. 

This is not what I want to discuss right now. "Was I?" I reply, irritably, trying to conceal the stilling of my heart. All I can focus on are his words; the rest of the world is a searing white, a bloodless blankness.

 Neil pauses slightly, weighing his words. "There's been some concern about whether or not you are working yourself too hard." 

I can sense what lies beneath his words: I'm too broken to live as people do. I've heard how he speaks about me to Cain. Fragile, mercurial, broken. He would prefer I live as an invalid, dependent on others. And I've already lived a life of suffocating dependence. I can't return to that, and if the price is the last vestige of my sanity, then that is fair.

"I am not," I reply. 

"You could take fewer hours, and stay here more."

 I give him one of my colder stares. I refuse to take him up on his offer; I am achingly aware of my status as outsider here. "I am quite fond of my independence, and I see no reason for change."

Something akin to disappointment moves across his face, and I am livid, and a little afraid, that he should try to draw me back, to find some middle ground between what is and what has been decided. Could even Neil have his doubts, now that he has to face the consequences? (And under that is the more terrifying revelation: that he has developed some fondness for me. And that never ends well.) 

If he wanted this closeness, then he ought not to have pushed me aside, to focus on the only son who matters. Jealousy comes too easily to me, all too well. 

Neil considers his letter again. "Will you be happy there? In Manchester?" 

The past flares up again. How dare he speak to me of happiness, knowing what Father was like. Knowing and doing nothing. "My happiness has never been a concern of mine nor anyone else's."

And with that, I move to leave, but Neil cannot let this go. 

"It is my concern."

 For a moment, a hurricane of a moment, I want to scream and throw the letter from the Yard at him. Rage at the injustices of the world, that innocents should suffer for the will of a weak woman. That some things are without sense and without meaning.That God, in all His infinite glory and wisdom, always shows up too late. But the words don't come, and in their place, a dangerous stillness claims me instead. 

"Has it been?" I say quietly, my hand at the door. The syllables of the closing door, the final say in the matter.  And with that, I leave him to his true family and his true son. And unlike Lot's wife, I do not glance back. 

* * *

 Dead. 

They're dead. 

I held them less than a fortnight ago, and now they're dead. The letter was postmarked for Tuesday, which means they'll have died this week. I should have anticipated this: an animal shown to have caused the death of a filthy person would never have been allowed to live. And I was so foolish as to appeal to the kindness of the Yard. 

I've been so foolish lately. Nothing lasts. And what I have made will never endure. 

There's nothing that remains. Not love, not words, not memories. Everything goes. Everyone goes. The curse and the promise of time. Even though Cassian has returned to me, I can see only the minutes pass without remorse and without end; seconds that cannot be taken back and hoarded for a rainy day. No, all I see is what is lost—and what will be lost. And it was lost by my hand, though not willingly. I thought, I hoped Cain would see through my words and return to how it used to be. That we could have that moment of warmth eternally.

 Cassian waits for me in the doorway, stubborn as always, and I, I push him away, as always. He bounds after me—and I run from him. I can almost hear him calling after me, but the door separates us, again. Insurmountable. In this distance, a safety and a sadness. A scrabbling at the door, and then the silence that holds all his annoyance with me.

(Goddamnit, Doctor.)

I lean against the door, listening, waiting for something I cannot name. My hand pressed against the smooth wood. 

A thump, as he lies down, unwilling to surrender.

(You'll have to come out sometime.)

"You're wrong," I whisper. "I won't." And that I know with a strange certainty. There are sharp lines in my life, delineating just how much one may be loved, and trusted, and allowed in. Laws handed down to me by my God and my lamb. And every time I consider transgressing, a terror comes over me; a terror and a hatred that have always co-existed, because they sprung from the same source—the unabiding, undulating grief that has never left me. 

It's lodged there, that little piece of glass that tore through my center and left me aimless and angry and alone. Poisoning me for all these years. And yet, I cannot remove it—that I know—nor can I make peace with it, because I am ashamed. Ashamed and afraid.

 And here am I, imagining Cassian's voice, if only to alleviate my guilt. I'm the one who stole his voice, after all. Part of him has been irrevocably lost. 

No, that's not it. Or, at least, not wholly it. With him, I have also lost part of myself. The dream I so briefly permitted myself. Perhaps that is why grief stings so deeply. It's a double mourning: once for the deceased and the promise of what could have been, and then for oneself, for the part that can never be again. We tuck away parts of ourselves into others: a hope, a dream, a hatred. It's why I could never bring myself to kill Father consciously, even when it was within my power to do so; by being the source of my loving hatred, he preserved the dream of the forest. I didn't have to let go of Snark and what I had before the Fall. There was still a chance that he might return to the Father I loved with every cell of my dying body. 

But I can never _be_ again. And that I cannot come to terms with. It tears at me, what could have been. (If only I were whole.)  

Oh, there's tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—a ceaseless parade of tomorrows, at once too long and too short. I don't want it anymore. I won't change. Nothing will ever surpass the love I had for Father. He's in my bones, soaked deep in my bones, and I can't be rid of him because I don't want to be. No one can change that, not Cassian and certainly not Cain.

But, no matter how many times I try to solve the impossible riddle, the impossible love, I cannot change anything. I'm soiled and ...and too broken, I suppose. Isn't that what Neil meant? Too broken. There's no value in broken things; sometimes, they're even dangerous. Damaged beakers, cracked vials can shatter unexpectedly. That was impressed upon me at the beginning of my studies. Always check for the hair-thin cracks. 

(But at that time, I had stopped caring about danger. That was a concern of those without glass in their heart.)

I survey my office, overwhelmed by what must be packed and what must still be completed; tests still left to be run. Life, in a steady, implacable movement towards death. Leaving behind trifles that we cling to, trifles that time distorts and fades and, at last, claims. The birds are trifles too, plump, cooing fragments that slowly fade from me. And nothing remains of them. I cannot change anything, because I am too broken to change.

Stopped clocks are worthless.

And I repeat my actions, because that's all I can do. I can't break any cycle, that I know. This is comforting and familiar and defeating: the skeleton—all wires and glue and plaster bones—collapses onto the floor. Petri dishes, each with a sample to be tested, scatter into sharp dust. The agar of their insides collecting debris. Jars and beakers and an unlucky teapot all fall victim to my rage. Papers with notes and test results and hypotheses and idle drawings flutter from my hand, as I divide them into uneven strips. Blood falls from somewhere, circling my path. Something rips my sleeve, opening my arm, and I hardly care; the pain hardly registers under the surge of adrenaline.  

Along the river of glass is blood, uneven patches of bright, bright warmth. A pinprick here, and a thimbleful there. I don't care who it belongs to. If anyone comes in here now, their life is forfeit. This is my true nature. I am not an Ophelia, to drag half-dead from the river, as Cassandra so wrongly thought.

I am broken, hideously broken. And that cannot be changed.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give thanks for my lovely readers who offer the best of feedback. I'm so lucky to have you all.


	8. The Sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters to write so far, so please enjoy my suffering.
> 
> Also, just in case it's not painfully obvious, this chapter was inspired by The Secret Garden. You'll see why very soon.

> _Jezabel_

It's over, I suppose. 

The birds trail across the cloudy sky, straggling homeward. I wonder if they are cold, up there in the desert of fog, if they ever miss their home. And unbearable jealousy comes over me. 

My life is over, and it never began. I, too, can read the writing on the wall, that I will never be enough, that I cannot keep anything from fading. Nothing lasts, and so I should not be surprised that I cannot either. What a strange finality that creeps into my world, slowing it.  The end. The place that everyone fears. 

(But does any being truly want to die? Even at the moment of death, the moment past the decision, is there not the inescapable drive of biology? That insufferable, unconquerable desire to live? The urge for a sign, a hint that everything is bearable and solvable?)

Time keeps moving, and I cannot make any sense of it. I just keep repeating what I cannot undo. 

Light returns under the door—Cassian has left. I cannot decide if I am heartbroken or vindicated in my belief in the foolishness of love. He left, and he'll leave, like he always does. I'm the one who is left behind. And I'm here, waiting, unchanging even as  time carries on. (But what am I waiting for?)

I can't solve this. I can't undo any of this. I will always be in exile, no matter where I go. Home is the forest with Snark, and the past cannot _be_ , again. But here, I am superfluous. I cannot be acknowledged, or the entire entailment would be disrupted— _and we can't have that, can we_? Even though Cain has no more claim to legitimacy than I do, he had the fortune to be convenient enough to pass as Father's heir, and therefore be acknowledged as such. It stings that the family preferred the child born from incestuous rape to me; I suppose I just didn't have enough of Father in me to be wanted.

And now, it's more of the same. They can't figure out what to do with me, or even what I could possibly stand to gain from this tenuous arrangement. That would be funny, wouldn't it? To leave them with all the questions and none of the answers? No, that's not true. Cain has all the answers. He has everything.

Before my mind sets to the _how_ of the act itself, having decided on the _why_ of it all, there's movement at the door latch. A little muttering, and a distinct clicking of a hairpin through the keyhole. And before I can put together a suitably cutting remark, the door opens.

Mary stands there, hairpin in hand, her little sailor dress against the grey of the walls.  Self-satisfaction at her handiwork gives way to horror,as she sees the wreckage of the room: the blood, the slow drip of something spilt, the shattered glass like ice. On the floor, against the walls, on me. Her little doll knees knock together in fear, and in that moment, I know that I have ruined whatever peace she has come to. She must be relieving the night she met my true nature—all blood and glass. She shakes her head a little, as if she cannot make sense of it all, and _why_ forms on her mouth _._

Of course, that's what everyone wants to know. Why, why, why. Why did you kill that woman? Why did you let Cassandra lord over you? Why didn't you escape from your father the first chance you got?

Mary's eyes follow the trail of blood and glass I have left, then they spot something on the windowsill. She takes in a deep breath, as if to steady herself. Her little hands twist at her pinafore. Her mouth in a determined line. "You're scared, aren't you? That why you broke everything." She frowns. "You just make everyone scared of you when you do that." She stares back at me, defiant. "But I'm here now. I'm here, so you don't have to be scared. So don't send me away!"

 Her strapped flats tread carefully through the wreckage, as if she is walking on ice. "You're not alone, you know," she says in a smaller voice. "You hurt people when you act like that. You hurt Cassian every time you push him away."

I do not justify her words with a response, instead staring sullenly at the cloudy wall. Oh, I'm well aware that my existence keeps hurting people. 

Her voice wavers. "All he wanted to do was be with you again. And you keep pushing him away."

"I never asked him." There it is. My sullen voice. 

"But he cares about y—"

"Why are you here?" I interrupt. "Shouldn't you be complaining to your guardian about me?" Like everyone else.

"You're my brother. And he's your uncle."

"You're not a good liar," I warn, half-tempted to tell her the truth about her parentage. That would really put her in her place, would rid her of that infuriating happiness. But something stops me; it's not the way she looks at Cain that speaks of hope and innocence, nor the way she carries herself, Burnett's little princess through and through. But what is it?

"I'm not lying," she counters, in that tone of hurt childishness. She watches me carefully, as if expecting a show of violence, and satisfied that there will be none, she takes something from the windowsill. Cradling it in her chubby hands. "It's not about the house, is it?" she asks, tilting her little head in thought.

"You wouldn't understand."

 "Why not? Father didn't recognize me either." Her voice quivers a little, and I can guess what hides under it—this state of unwantedness that governs us both.   

 "Women don't inherit."

She matches my sullenness with a determined stare. "And why not? I'm as capable as any man." Then she softens again, as her gaze returns to whatever she has in her hands. "You can't fight all of society, you know. Eventually you _do_ have to figure out how to live in it."

I have half a mind to tell her that I am apparently incapable of such a feat, but the words don't form. Nothing comes.

In our silence, the adrenaline slowly fades, and an ache informs me I am bleeding from somewhere. I should probably check to see if I have not managed to cut a major artery open this time. And the wreckage no longer becomes a manifestation of my loss, but rather a symptom of my inability to moderate my feelings. Shame comes over me at my state, over behaving as I did. The tests will all have to be redone. 

At the window, Mary watches the birds hop about. "It's the robin. Well, it can't be, but it looks just like him."  At my puzzlement, she continues in a slightly hushed tone. "When Mama—I mean, Mother—when Mother died, I thought I would be better off dead too. When she died, it was like I fell through the looking glass. There wasn't anyone left to take care of me. And I-I crawled under the bed and I didn't move until the landlord told me I couldn't stay there anymore. He told me to go to my family, but I didn't have any. I had Father's ring and Mama's stories, but how could I go to such a grand place? To the posh side of London? I'd be laughed at, and told to get back to my slum. Like Cinderella in reverse. And when I left the house, there were a man, who looked at me up and down with wolf eyes and asked me where my mama was. And I ran from him, and ran, and ran, until I was lost. And I curled up in the dark, in a dark corner, alone and frightened."

She pauses, her eyes moving in recollection. "It was cold. I could feel the cold through my stockings. And I couldn't stop shaking, and I was so, so hungry and thirsty. I prayed that God could just give me back my Mama, so that everything would be okay again. But nothing changed. When I saw it, I thought I had died. It was a bird, a little robin. I'd never seen a bird like it before in London. Birds don't stay colorful for long in the smog. And it looked at me, and it was like I had seen the corners of the universe in its black eyes. It must have been a fever dream—must have!—but it felt so real. I knew then I had to get up, or I would die there in the cold. I wanted to see Mama again so bad, but I knew that if I died, then everything would be for naught. All my pain and Mama's pain would be for nothing."

She twists a corner of her pinafore. "I thought for the longest time that the robin meant that I would be rewarded for suffering, that there was some cosmic redress." A grim smile. "But I was wrong. I had to live so that I could know what it feels like to be alone, really terribly alone.  Then I didn't want anyone else to feel the same. Maybe that's what it meant. We keep trying and living, in the hopes that our pain isn't wasted, that someone else can be helped because of it." She gives me a strange, appraising look. "Maybe Mama and I had to suffer, so I could help you. And because I helped you, you'll go on to help someone else. Maybe that's all we have, in the end."

 A silence comes over us.

I want to tell her that she is wrong in her foolish idealism, that love is not a cure-all for the slings and arrows of life, that we have nothing in the end—but I cannot. And so, we remain in a state of inaction, as she collects herself, having relived one of the worst memories, no doubt, of her short life, and I do not dare to break the silence, because then there will be an accounting—and something will be done, but what I cannot tell. 

"I don't believe that people can be broken," Mary continues in her small voice, a distant expression on her face. "People can be hurt, and be hurt bad. But I think there's something that never truly goes out, no matter how horrible life is. Maybe it gets buried, or locked away, but it's still there. And that's what counts." She pauses. "That's what counts in the end."

"You're wrong," I reply, bitterly. "You're wrong about everything."

"And what? You're right, I suppose?" she counters, haughtily. Reminding me that we are evenly matched in will. "You're wrong about me, and you're wrong about Big Brother." She sighs a little. "But if I wanted to have a discussion of who's right and who's wrong, I'd have that with Oscar. He's _always_ wrong."

As she turns towards me, I finally see what she has been holding—the sea urchin fossil. "Do stop frightening everyone. It's not helpful."

And it's my turn to ask _why_. Why she came back. No one comes back, not in the least because I don't let them. I want to ask _why_ , but something else takes its place. "He took who I was.  He made me like this. I won't ever be the way I was before, again."

"You don't have to be," she says quietly. "Because you'll change, whether you wish it, or not. Because you have changed. We all change. Even the dead. The past is gone, and so you can be someone different." She holds out her hand, trembling. "Now, stop being so silly, and come back home." The fearful way she stares up at me, undecided if she has just signed her own death warrant, tells me she is much less confident than she appears. But I suppose she won't give in—she wants to prove to herself, and to me, I suppose, that I didn't take away that fierce little will of hers with my cruelty. 

But I don't want to go back _there_. I don't want any of this. I want to be alone and sulk in my misery. I don't want this offer; I don't want what hides behind it: this facsimile of love and comradery—and yet, what is left, then? It's not a matter of a life for a life—that balance is easily found, for I could easily kill everyone in the household within the hour if I wished it. No, this about what I had fled from, and what now demands an accounting. About what I denied for so long, even as Cain tried to give it back. My humanity.  

(But it was never his to return. It was never anyone's but mine.) 

  "I don't want to!" I realize that I am screaming at her, but her hand does not move from its grim determination.  "I didn't ask for any of this!"

 "Did anyone? I sure can't remember."

"So you can leave me too? Is that it?" I have it now, the reason she's here. "After you convince yourself that you're nobler _and better than me_? With all your saccharine forgiveness?"

She frowns, caught off-guard by my accusations. "What?" Then she puts her hands on her hips. "God in heaven, I wonder how you got anything done with all that self-pity. If I didn't care, I could easily find much more pleasant ways of spending my afternoon than trying to reason with you."

 Stunned into silence, I only register my uneven breath. The heaving of my chest, as my fear builds. 

She softens again, wringing her hands together. "Come home already. Stop being so willful."

I cannot, for if I do, I will have to make amends to her. And I do not know how, or if that possibility even exists. If I do return, then I cannot run away from it all anymore, and I will make myself vulnerable. And I despise vulnerability—when all the careful boundaries between myself and others fade, and my heart is open, painfully open, for anyone to hurt. There's a certain wide-eyed pain in vulnerability. 

"No! I won't!"

I'd break something to show her, but there's nothing left to destroy. How fitting. I don't care how childish I'm being. I can't. I can't try again, only to have someone else remind me of just how unwanted I am. I set aside the boundaries of my heart with Cain, to relish the warmth he lent me. And he left. He doesn't want to deal with me anymore. 

Now, all that remains is this pain from not ever being enough for anyone. If I am not still enough for my brother, who shares my soul, then who? When I was still naive enough to dream it, I used to lose myself in daydreams about being rescued by Father; he'd come to his senses and abandon his foolish endeavors—and he'd love me the way he used to. 

Clasping the sea urchin to her pinafore, she gives me a look of utter hopelessness. Good. She can take all her idealistic love and bestow it upon those foolish enough to believe in it. If she wants to try my patience, I'll leave her little corpse for Cain to find. I avert my gaze from her, stubbornly focused on a particularly bloody piece of glass. For some reason, I cannot bear to look at her and her sorrow, and guilt replaces the self-satisfaction in my chest, a dull pain marking its presence. 

And there's a tugging at my hand. I flinch at the unexpected sensation, but that does not dissuade Mary, as she bridges the space between us with her foolishness. And yet, a certain determination fills her eyes, those large blue eyes I would have put in a jar and admired for the pain their loss would have incurred in Cain.  

"Aren't you afraid?"

She shakes her head, and then quickly nods. "Yes. I'm so frightened. But I won't let you go."

I want to crouch down, to meet her face to face, and shake her so badly that she never touches me again. To break every little bone in her body as a reminder of my true nature. But something stills my hand—a tear rolls down her expectant face. She knows I will hurt her, and she has still made her decision. She has nothing to offer me, and yet here she is, disarming me with her naivety. 

Can one little girl be so desperate for a semblance of a family? It's painful and pitiful—and somehow moving. I look again, and I know what she fears—loss. Another loss. How strange, her fear causes her to pull others closer, while my inclination is the opposite. It occurs to me that I could easily break her hold on me, but I do not let go.

And I do not know just what I have done. 

Her shoulders droop from exhaustion. "You're so difficult, you know," she says, to mask her surprise. 

 "I've been told."

 "Not often enough, it seems." She sighs, surveying the room. "I doubt there's anything you can do that I haven't seen at this point," she remarks dryly. And in that instant, I can almost hear Cain again, irked with me. She has no idea how much she is like her brother. Perhaps there is something deeper than blood after all.

She rifles through the closet, before handing the broom to me. "Here. You made this mess, and so you need to fix it."

I am stunned. 

" _Before_ the day is done, preferably," she says firmly, pressing it into my hands. 

I give her a cold stare, unwilling to submit to such drudgery, regardless of what has transpired between us. She returns my stubbornness with an equally determined raise of her thin eyebrows, bent on holding me accountable. A few moments fraught with a hair-thin danger she cannot imagine pass between us, before I realize what I risk by being found in such a state. There will be questions and accusations, for this is not Delilah, where I can ruin everything to match my insides. 

Well, then, let her think this a simple acquiescence to her will. I suppose she'll enjoy that. 

* * *

 The last of the glass has finally been disposed of, amid Mary's idle gossip. From her perch on my desk, she chatters on, swinging her legs, as she tells me about Cain and Oscar. About how she's good friends with one of the maids—Anna? Daisy? How her governess tried to teach her how to be a _proper lady_ , and so she ran off here to hide.

"You ran away from your governess," I interrupt, awkwardly piling the glass into the wastepaper basket. Being trained as a doctor, I have never handled a broom in my life, much to Mary's amusement, and so the process is a bit laborious. 

"Yes," she replies, slightly wary. "I don't want to be a great lady."

"You'll have to." 

"No, I won't. I'll be a great detective, like Big Brother."

"He makes Neil worry when he goes out sleuthing," I remind her.

"Oh." Her eyes widen in alarm a little. And as she sinks into thought, I resume my struggle with the broom, sweeping along the edges of the room. She frowns, and hopping down, moves to correct my grip on the broom. Again. Moving one hand further up the handle. "Here." The frown returns, as her gaze lowers, following something. "You're bleeding," she says in an odd voice, pointing to my arm. As if she cannot quite comprehend that I am only a being of flesh and blood. The same as her. 

I shrug it off, but Mary has never been one to know when to quit. 

"You'll get a scar." A strange look comes into her bird eyes. Her old eyes that have seen a bit too much for innocence. 

 "I'll handle it," I retort, more harshly than I intended. Irritated by her simple-minded suggestion that _this_ scar will be what I regret. Oh, if she only knew. And in that moment, I hate her for her ignorance, hate her for the silent accusations in her eyes.

 Mary has just opened her mouth for a retort, when the door opens again. Oscar stands, harried and slightly red from exertion. 

"Mary! There you are! You just disappeared! Miss Pritchett was so worried about you!"

"I'm sure you comforted her," Mary replies, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. 

I have no idea why my office has become such a popular spot; I have half a mind to push everyone out just for some quiet.  

"Now, now, Mary," he says, embarrassed. "That's a bit harsh to say to your love."

Exasperated, Mary turns to me. "See what I have to put up with?" she remarks, dryly.

Oscar, in the meantime, surveys the room, and his gaze lingers on my bloody sleeve.  I'm struck with the urge to hide it, to hide myself. I hate being the object of scrutiny. "Mary," he begins, "why don't you go feed the animals? You know where Jezabel keeps their food, right?"

She eyes both of us suspiciously, clearly aware that she is being sent away under a thin pretense. "You best not be comforting him while I'm gone." 

Oscar turns a brilliant shade of red, trying to conceal it with his hands, as she leaves with a huff. 

 "Don't worry," I reply, as the door closes. "It's common knowledge you're in love with Cain."

 He buries his head in his hands. "Lord..." Shaking his head, he chuckles a little from embarrassment. And then his gaze returns to me, and his sheepish grin fades. "Should we take a look at that," he says, pointing to my arm. 

Unconsciously, I clasp my other hand over it, protectively. Pulling it closer to me. Steeling myself, I peel back the soaked cotton: several long gashes littered with more glass. The adrenaline must have masked the extent of this wound; because the blood is not issuing out in time with my heat beat, it appears that I have not opened a significant artery—for better or worse. Vaguely curious, I poke around the damaged skin, lifting a pale, detached strip, until I notice that Oscar has gone very white.

"Do you want me to fetch a nurse?" He swallows back his revulsion, gesturing past the door. "I could get one right quick—"

"No. There's everything in here." 

Worry darkens his face. "Oh, surely not. You must be having one on me."

"It's not the first time I've done this," I remind him, stiffly. 

"I can believe that." He exhales, resigning himself to something. "Come over here. Give me the tweezers, and I'll fix it."

I stare at him in disbelief. "You'll faint before it's done."

He scoffs. "I'm made of sterner stuff than that." 

I can't figure out what he stands to gain from this. "Cain won't love you any more for this."

"Of course," he replies, quietly. Something moves across his face, before quiet resignation returns. And I'm ashamed again, reminding him of a love he can never have. I seem to have grown weak, to give the feelings of people any consideration. Perhaps Mary was right, after all.

And perhaps to make amends for my heartlessness, I acquiesce to his request, placing the metal into his hand. Reluctantly, my heart sinking, I offer up my bloody arm. This vulnerability twisting in my gut. In this, there is no warmth, no gentle reassurance. Just a certain dread.

 "Do you want me to sit on your lap too?" I ask lightly, to mask my fear. He doesn't know that it is less of a jest than he could ever imagine.  

He says nothing in response, instead gently pressing against his first target. And the trembling begins again, because I still cannot stand to be touched. And then, the pain sharpens, as air fills the hollow left by the shard. Like the negative of a photograph. Burning and bleeding. Oscar drops the shard onto the surface of the desk, and the metal digs into my flesh again, and I do my best to keep my hand unclenched, because tightening it will only bring forth more blood. 

"You don't have to watch," Oscar jokes, clearly uncomfortable by the way I stare at my wound. 

I don't reply, lost as I am in the blood-tipped glass shard. Half-recoiling at the presence it had in me, half-marveling at its beauty. 

 The magpie returns to dig again, rooting along the opening. Again and again— 

"Oscar, I'm quite done with the animals." Mary peeks past the door, and sharply draws in a breath in surprise. Her gaze sweeps along my opened arm, even as Oscar tries to conceal it with a bumbling humor. A pause comes over her, cold and deep. As if she is weighing me again. Something moves across her face: pity? Fear? Concern? And before I can sort out her intentions, she grasps my hand; her doll hands pitiably, laughably small and trembling, yet determined.

An insignificant act against a world of blood and terror. 

And yet, there is something unsettling in her foolishness. Defiantly, she stares up at me, daring me to complain, and I almost laugh at her misplaced self-assurance. 

"I am your sister," she replies haughtily to my unasked question, drawing herself up to her full height of no more than a table. "And you _will_ allow me this. I've quite had it with your stubbornness. You don't live alone, you know."  The brightness in her eyes, the near-tears, tells me that she has lost something dear. Or more likely, knowing her as I do now, relinquished it. "I am your sister," she says, more quietly, more sadly. As if the fight has left her. As if to convince herself. 

Her sadness, while not quite evoking empathy in me, still moves me in a strange, unexplainable way, and the retort I had planned loses its sting.  

"Of course, you are," I concede, suddenly weary of everything. I have never before realized just how much effort it required to keep the world away.

Surprise registers in her face; then, she gives me a cautious look, as if anticipating a biting comment on its heels. She takes my speechlessness for an answer, though what I am uncertain, and tightens her grip on my hand. "Close your eyes," she says quietly. "It will hurt less."

"You shouldn't be looking either," I retort.

"Fine. Then neither of us shall look." As if to prove her point, she claps her free hand over her eyes. "You better not be looking. Oscar will tell me if you are."

I stare at her, fumbling for words. Oscar nudges me slightly, and reluctantly I close my eyes. Bizarrely enough, she is correct: I had thought it might heighten the pain, but I was wrong. It still hurts, though not as much. Instead I am conscious of her hand on mine. Like an anchor.

"Finished," Oscar announces, and I take that as my cue to look again. He wipes off his brow, in mock exhaustion. 

Dark punctures mark the length of my forearm; blood creeps out, sliding down, despite Oscar's best efforts. They're too deep to close on their own.

Mary pales at the sight, hesitation uncurling her hand from mine. "Oh. We should send for a doctor."

"I'm a doctor."

"No," she replies firmly. "Another doctor. Don't be so prideful."

Her insinuation that I am unable to handle this irks me, and I search through the drawer for the catgut. And I know that only I can do this. And the catgut unwinds in my hands, falling, falling, falling as I measure it out. Weighing out the price it asks of me. My blood for my humanity—and all the pain that it entails. For to be human again is to be vulnerable, to be subject to the chaos of life within a group, to change. To never be the same again.   

 The knot catches in my skin. My flesh blanches with pain, as the string trails through, joining wound to wound. Catgut doubles back, splitting the white of my arm, crossing the veins. Back and forward. Back and forward. Sawing through my skin, as it maps out its path. Changing the jagged dents into a constellation. I will lose consciousness from this, I will vomit—of this I am certain. This is too much to bear. This is pain beyond measure, and hurts all the more because it cannot be avoided. 

 Mary responds to the spasms of pain in my hand by tightening her grip. Anxiety lining her face. It's only when I have finished my task, that I notice just how tightly she has been grasping my hand. White imprints remain behind as she adjusts her grip.

"Does it hurt?" Her voice small.  

I settle for shaking my head, nausea tightening my throat. 

"You're not a good liar," she replies, reaching for the gauze. 

* * *

 Once invoked, it is very difficult to escape from Mary's tending. She draws the curtains of my bedroom closed, before changing her mind about how much light is permissible. For all her dislike of governesses, she can match the most insistent.  

"It's only four in the afternoon." The sharp pain in my arm has subsided into a dull ache, against the comfort of gauze. I had to show her three times how to correctly apply the bandage, before struggling with Oscar, who took Mary's inability as his cue to try.  

Mary puts her hands on her hips. "You need rest." 

"I'm a doctor. I think I should know what's best."

"Obviously not." Worry comes over her, as she glances at my bandaged forearm. "Let me take care of you." 

"I'd give in," Oscar mock-whispers to me. "She's not something to be reckoned with."

Slightly bewildered, I shrink back into the blankets, and she smiles at this. 

"There," she says, drawing the blankets around me, and for an instant, I wonder if my sisters would have grown up to be like her, if they had never been nestled into my body. "Hold still," she orders, climbing onto the bed with a hairbrush. "You look a right mess."

I nearly laugh at this.

One chubby hand takes a section of my hair, and runs the brush through, incrementally, struggling against the tangles. The process is a little rough, perhaps indicative of her life on the streets, but when she finishes, drawing the brush through the separated strands for the final time, there is a strange sense of being _loved_. And it is a frightening sensation that numbs my throat and steals my words. 

"I liked it when it was long," she admits shyly, setting the brush down. "You'll keep it long again, won't you?" Humming to herself, she begins to weave the strands together. Back and forth. Crossing.

I'm still unable to make any sense of this strange girl, who wouldn't even be alive if Riff hadn't had a quick reflexes, who somehow can find this boundless, frightening love within herself—and share it. I fled from the vulnerability she embraces. I tried to _kill_ her, in all earnestness, and here she is, braiding my hair with trembling hands. It's not forgiveness, however. She might never forgive me for what I did, and yet, to care for something is to claim it, though not in the way that Cassandra thought. By tending to me, I suppose she's trying to diminish the threat she still sees in me.  

"Oh!" Mary fumbles in her pinafore pocket. "Oh, where is it?" Out falls a thimble, a tin of comfits, and a velvet ribbon. With her only free hand, she takes up the ribbon. 

"Mary!" Oscar begins, only half jokingly. "Should we pick something more suitable?"

"Don't be silly," she replies, securing the braid. "It is suitable." She smiles to herself at her handiwork. And I wonder if, in this strange girl, I have been gifted a second chance to know my sisters.

A knock on the door, and a tight-lipped maid brings in tea. I can already sense that this is going to be a topic of gossip in the servants' quarters—just what is Lord Cain's lunatic brother up to this time? With her, Cassian creeps in, to settle by my side. And I realize that Mary's appearance was no quirk of fate. I am left without words. As he settles beside me, for a moment, I pretend that what we have is not subject to the bounds of time and flesh. That this moment will never end.  

 "It's rose-hip tea," Mary says, interrupting my thoughts. As she pours the tea, the stream reddens—blood. Blood of the Lamb, a lamb. The blood of the covenant, which is thicker than the water of the womb. A plague and a promise. She offers the first cup to me, ever the little hostess. "Anna just dried the hips last week." A sadness comes into her eyes. "Mother used to love it." Lost in her sudden melancholy, she divides up the sandwiches, and watching me carefully, sets my portion near me, with an unspoken plea.

I contemplate ignoring her offer. I contemplate leaving them both, in their little dollhouse. But I cannot. I cannot quite abandon the warmth, a different warmth, of being _loved_. And so, I steel myself against the unpleasantness of it all, wondering if love is not something given, but rather shared. If, by indulging her, I can begin to make amends. How strange, this wish to make up for what cannot be undone. (But can we? Can we have some semblance of a familial relationship? Or is the past too great to be laid aside?) 

As usual, I have none of the answers, only questions and shadows. 

I survey the task before me, only to realize that it is no longer a task, as it was with Father. An unpleasant chore. No, this is penance, because I was wrong.  And even though the seconds are ceaselessly fleeing from me, somewhere, against the cruelty and self-erosion of meaninglessness, stands the fragility of love. Maybe I was wrong, after all, to think of love as an unconditional surrender, as I did with Father. A fire or nothing. Perhaps I was wrong to imagine love as life without skin, without walls.

 Perhaps love is a door, a little door with a key that has been long lost. Yes, Cain's would be laced with black iron, frightful and intimidating at first, but easily surmounted, despite the rusted spikes and curling oleander. And Mary's would be a child's door, white and inviting, all encompassing but easily extinguished. But mine? Mine would be a rickety gate, so overgrown with weeds and ivy that it seems as though it has been reclaimed by the god of winter. So unsteady it seems broken. But it remains, after all. Somehow, it remains. 

Perhaps I can stand to leave the door ajar.

Just a little.

Just in case the light comes in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is where you see my love of patterns. The Greek mythology motif is finally complete: it's something that repeats throughout Leaving the Garden, and gets resolved here. That felt important to me. Instead of ending on Atropos, the thread-cutter, or Clotho, the thread-spinner, it ends with Lachesis, the thread-measurer. And here's where I get super obnoxious, so sit tight or skip this section. I don't mind either way. For me, it was important to end with not a rehashing of Jezabel's canonical role within Delilah, as life-giver/death-bringer ( a contradiction I could spend quite a few words on), but as something entirely different. And so, I decided that it would look something like this, as Lachesis allots the length of a person's life, but neither takes nor bestows it. A slightly more neutral position. 
> 
> And Mary is one of my favs, so she got some more development this chapter. I love her down-to-earth monologues, and so the one in this chapter was patterned after the one she gave Mikaila, because I love that speech. You can probably see a pattern here...
> 
> Also, the "Burnett's little princess" line was an allusion to Frances Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess, about a sugar-sweet girl who is forced to work as a servant after her father dies abroad. 
> 
> As always, my eternal thanks and gratitude to my readers. I'd love to hear from you! <3


	9. For a Time of Adversity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi you all!  
> First chapter of 2017! Wow! I didn't think it would go on for this long...

"Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "Ten years is a long time. It may be too late to do anything—quite too late. What have I been thinking of!"

 _—_ Francis Hodgson Burnett,  _The Secret Garden_

> _Jezabel_

 By the time morning stretches across the sky, a few celestial bodies stubbornly remaining, Mary creeps into my room. A soft knock announcing her presence. Hesitation on her face, as she surveys me, mute with what I suspect is her need to establish a sort of normalcy between us. If that can even be done. And yet even now, there is something different between us. It's not love, nor is it devotion. But there is something not unlike what I felt for Cassian, when I was struck speechless with just what he had done.   

Perhaps that's my nature—to ignore the world until it shows an interest in me. I didn't care for Cassian, or at least, wasn't conscious about the way his constant presence had become something to me, until he had thrown himself into harm's way. I had become so cynical, that any display of love, save for Father's, was routinely discarded and dismissed. No, that's not it. Cassian had done similar acts in the past, so what, then, made his final act so different than the rest? It could not have been surprise that moved me so. No, it was the knowledge that we shared a similar past _—_ a past of being used and discarded and overlooked. Perhaps it was his expression of an almost paternal affection for me, a desire to see me set free by my own hand _—_ and not his. 

A sort of kinship, then.

The soft morning light catches her worried face, lightening her hair, as she fidgets. Unsure of what to do next. Unsure of me. It's still between us, her friend's death. Even if we don't speak about it, it remains still, eternally present.

And then, just as before, and perhaps _because_ of before, she takes my hand again, chubby fingers barely covering my own, and she slowly turns my forearm towards her. She lowers her guard when I allow her this indulgence, and inspects the fresh gauze I applied at Cassian's insistence. He, in turn, moves next to Mary; co-conspirators, I suspect.  Her furrowed worry gives way to annoyance as she spots the disheveled braid. I had meant to brush it out, but somehow I could not bear to undo her handiwork.

"Don't they teach you how to undo braids in medical school," she quips, though not unkindly. 

I shrug, uncomfortable as the object of her scrutiny.  

Mary takes my silence as an invitation, and I try not to wince as she separates the strands a bit too roughly. It's still surreal, and I don't know what to make of her—or any of this. Having undone the braid, she gasps in delight as she notices that my faintly curly hair has taken on the waves of the braid.

"Oh, how grand!" And she traces a curl with her fingers. "Oh, just like Mama's hair!" Pleased with this discovery, she continues brushing out my hair, chattering on about how her mother's hair always curled when she undid her coiffure for the night. How sometimes her mother would let her brush out the day's tangles. 

There's only a moment's interruption in her chatter, when she surveys her work. "It's be a right shame to put it away in a braid," she confides, smoothing down the wanton wisps that, to my amusement and Neil's chagrin, also plague Cain. Again, the feeling of being _loved_ returns. This time, instead of frightening me with its sudden appearance, the feeling is more bearable. And I wonder if this has become our language. 

"We should go out today," she says eagerly. "The roses are still in bloom, and the birds have come back—"

"And you don't want to go to lessons," I finish.

She crosses her arms in petulance. "And why shouldn't I? They're so dull." 

 "So they are," I agree, not particularly wanting to face Neil after my _little affair_. I'm reasonably certain that word has spread, and I don't have an excuse for ordering new tests done. I don't want to hear about my _unfortunate nature_ again. And I suspect that I will have to indulge her wishes of being a family if I am to begin to make amends. That strikes me as the most important—to begin to atone for all I have done; that may prove to be an impossible dream.

And somehow, that strikes me as painfully sad.   

* * *

 It's such a strange experience to be in the same place Father leapt to his death. I had heard about it for so long, that I had decided that I must have known what it was like: barren, steep cliffs; an open plain of grasses cut low by a salt-soaked wind. A lonely, lost albatross, perhaps. A hard place that gave rise to a hard man. 

Now that I am here, in his footsteps and yet strangely apart from him, I see that I was wrong. True, the salt settles into everything within its kingdom, and an ever-present chill from the sea sweeps and seeps through everything, but, despite the hardness of the land, there is a surprising beauty to it. Among the undulating expanse of grasses, bellflowers sleepily nod. Trees mark the horizon, their crooked limbs growing in the shadow of the wind. Near the cliffs, sea birds make their nests.  

Mary runs into the grasses, one hand on her hat to keep it from taking to the sky. She laughs, her braids bouncing off her shoulders as she skips. "Isn't it grand?"

"Of course." I cannot refrain from a faint smile. There's a sense of freedom here. An isolation perhaps, but also a freedom. And then I remember the smothering soot of London, and my joy fades.  "I wonder how long this will last, with industrialization. We may be the last people to see this."

Mary frowns. "But Father owned the land. It's bound to the house."

I shake my head. "It's not that. It's the ceaseless tide of people. Breeding. Fighting. Soiling the natural world and turning it into London. Or any other industrial city." And that familiar bitterness returns. "Like a blight across the earth. How long do you think it will take for this place to be lit with cities and towns?" I pause, sensing her cautious silence as she attempts to fit this with her understanding of me. "There's a bird here that I've never seen. It's not in any books. Where will it live, when its land is taken away?" 

"Then we must make sure that doesn't happen," she says simply, as she stoops to collect a bluebell. 

"I doubt that _we_ are a part of anything."

"Don't be silly. That's what grown-ups say when they don't want to do anything." She gives me a level look, as she stands up again. "You're _alive_ , aren't you? So you can do something."

 To my immense annoyance, I cannot come up with a suitably cutting retort.

 Along the path, daisies curl upwards, amid the brown bones of the roses, all thorn and stem beneath their bristling coat of leaves. Mary inspects the roses, twisting off a few brilliantly red rose-hips. Grinning, she shows them to me, before stowing them away. Cassian, meanwhile, investigates the straggling ivy that spreads across the wall like a carelessly thrown shawl. 

(Weeds. They'll wreak a good wall in months. Never cared much for them, Doctor.)

I nearly ask Cassian just _how_ he came to have opinions about plants, even that he lived his years in a city, but I realize that there still remains so much that I do not know about him. His past is a mystery that time will not relinquish. As mine will be, one day. 

Plump birds bounce in front of me, regarding me with sharp black eyes. And I reel, remembering the warmth of the parrots' eyes, overwhelmed by the acute pain of loss and helplessness.  

 "Are you," Mary begins, carefully, "unwell?" All large-eyed concern. 

 I shake my head.  

"What happened?"  

I avert my gaze from her, unable to tell her about my inability to save God's creatures from being ill-used. My uselessness.

A little sigh of sorrow from her, and we continue on, this heaviness between us. Hurt shining in those large blue eyes from my refusal to confide in her. Then she collects herself, tramping over in her boots over to the roses.  

 "Do you like them?" She stops to run her fingers along the underside of a rose; under her touch, the white petals crumble, and she frowns slightly before continuing. "Big Brother didn't have any flowers in his garden when I came here." She smiles, a little pride brightening her face. "I wanted a garden like in the stories. With roses and bluebells and tulips. And lots of birds. I never saw many birds in London."

"But it's not a substitute for you mother, is it?" I am beginning to understand what drives her fevered longing for a family. 

 Mary gives me a curious glance. "Do you miss your mama?"

This takes me aback. "No."

She frowns. "Was she a bad person?"

"She was weak. When you're very small, they seem the same." At Mary's inquisitive silence, I continue, bitterly. "She couldn't bear the idea of being unloved. And when Father found us, she gave me back to him." 

She had been the youngest child of the family. The one overshadowed by a brother who died in infancy from scarlet fever, and a sister who married a minor noble. The one who had never been thought even worthy of attention. Father must have found it an easy matter to manipulate a love-starved child-woman into being his mistress, as disreputable as such a status was. I suppose the illusion of finally being special to someone made it easier to overlook my sisters' deaths. 

(Of course, I never heard any of this from her. I had to learn it all second-hand from Neil's correspondences with the other Hargreaves. The frenzied accusations and speculation when they learned Father's mistress had finally borne a son.)

"She tried to run from Father?" Mary asks, carefully. Evidently unaware that one could even contemplate escaping Father.

I nod. "She went a few towns over, to live with a cousin. She pretended I was her daughter."

Mary claps her hands together in amazement. "Oh! Like in the fairy stories!"

Cassian snorts a little. (You're certainly pretty enough to be a girl, Doctor.)

And somehow, it doesn't sting as much as it did before, when Cassandra reminded me of how unwanted I was. Mother is no longer the hated figure of my childhood, the willow of a woman who abandoned her children. Instead, the stirrings of pity fills me: I remember what it is like, to cherish the lightness of being special to someone. To be noticed when no one else has taken any notice. I don't forgive her—I might never forgive her, just as Mary might never forgive me for what I have willingly done—but I no longer hate her. Perhaps that's enough, for now. 

And that which is left to me is still unknown. It's a little terrifying to know that it is mostly in my power to shape, but that entails finally leaving Father, closing the door on him and his fantasies. I keep looking back in the hopes that I will catch a glimpse of how he used to be, but that man is gone, I suppose, if he ever existed. And so, is the home I had with him. A place all the more dear because it was naught but a fantasy. And I understand why Cain clung to the illusion of Riff, no matter what befell him.

I suppose we have been searching for the same thing in different places. 

Cassian waits patiently beside me, as he has always done, and I see what I have squandered, in all my selfishness. Cassian will die sooner than I, and I-I have wasted a year that I cannot take back. I have wasted a year picking through my innards, trying to find answers that may not exist. I've been so foolish. I'm struck with the fervent wish to hear his voice again—not Cassandra's voice, not the dog's, but _his_. His boyish voice forever frozen on the cusp of adolescence. And that I cannot have.  

It seems to me, that I have lived my life without my lamb in the carefullest way, dividing the world into what can be felt and what cannot. What is allowed. At the beginning of it all, it seemed fitting, that I, as a marked being, should not be able to experience the painful range of life. I had become different, soiled, and so it was easy to surrender this and that as the new walls of my world. The dream of being loved and being noticed. And yet, when I was not aware of it, the walls drew too close, and all the comforting lines started to resemble a cage. And it was too small a space to live in, but I told myself that those confines were all that was left to me. 

And I no longer want to live in such a limited way. 

Father might have encouraged it, but I put those walls there myself, and perhaps then, only I can remove them. But I fear it, because I have changed, and there is nothing more frightening _—_ and more freeing than that revelation.

I throw my arms around Cassian, as if that can still time. As if that can make up for my foolishness, my selfishness. How long have I wasted when the answer was in front of me the entire time? Cassian had loved me more than Father ever did. He has loved me despite my ugly insides. He came back for me, when I thought myself all alone. 

He sighs. (Took you long enough, kid. Any longer and I'd be an old man.)

"You _are_ an old man," I whisper, though not unkindly. 

* * *

 As Mary and I return to the house, her arms full of wildflowers and my head full of thoughts and fears that I cannot allay, I become aware that there is another whom I miss. Oh, how foolish I've been. So painfully foolish about everything. 

It occurs to me that I will never be that twelve-year-old again. That much is certain. It does not do to pine after the past, as alluring as such an option is. I have known the past, and it will not be again. Because I will not _be_ again. I have changed, and that knowledge frightens me in its implications. There is a vulnerability—and even a certain sadness—to change. It means that, somehow, life cruelly continued, instead of having the decency to end when I thought I had become a ghost of my former self—haunting myself. And yet, I do not know what I may become. 

I am different now. Made different in a thousand, halting increments. Even now, there are cells in my body that have never known Father, never known Cassandra, nor Mother, nor even Snark. Not the slipperiness of bluebells in that field a lifetime ago, when I still had the sense to run from Father. Nor the wetness of a looped, loosened intestine, like a rope, like a noose. 

But they have known Cain. 

The cells, I learned, do not all change at once, but in increments. The bones remake themselves every ten years, the liver in less than a year. Erythrocytes, the red blood cells, are made anew every few months. Father may still have my bones, but he does not have the rest of me. Not anymore. If I am no longer his, then whose creature am I? My own?  Can anyone truly belong to themselves? 

But there is something else, something entirely in my power to make different. I had mistaken this for weakness for so many years, despising the bonds of humanity as a sham, when I was truly afraid of its power. I cannot change the past, but I can amend what is left to me. Part of me fears that this is a trap, as it always does, and part of me trembles at this power, this feeling I cannot name that hid itself as hatred for all these years. Because there was nowhere else for it to hide. 

And the longer I examine it, more it starts to resemble a sort of _love_. 

For a moment, it seems as though I am peering inside my heart—the dusty, cadaverous monstrosity that it is. I pass through, the walls an angry rust from the years of jealousy, until I come to the little room; a child's nursery with its stainless door ajar. Spotless from all the energy I have expended in remembering it. The view of the forest, and the shelf full of fairy stories. The bed where I thought I must surely die from the pain of it all. The model ships and the plucked flowers on the windowsill. It seemed expansive and boundless when I was a child, but I know better now.

Inside the nursery, tracing the borders of the known world is my twelve-year-old self. An atlas propped on a pillow, and the summer's light catching on the knee-length shorts and starched shirt. Oh, how Hannah hated that I loved the forest; she often wished aloud that I had found a _cleaner_ interest. 

And yet, for all its nostalgia, the room no longer holds any promise of what could have been, and now merely exists as a mausoleum for what never will be. And as I move to close the door, he rushes to me. Alarm on his face. If I close the door, then no one will remember him, and I will have to surrender that too. Hannah's dead. Snark's dead. Mother's dead. Father's dead. I outlived them all, in spite of my wishes to the contrary. How perverse. 

I search his eyes, wide with worry, and I have half a mind to tell him everything that will happen. To tell him that he will suffer—oh God, will he suffer, and God, in all His infinite generosity and wisdom, hardly keeps his oaths—but in the end, in the end, he might be happy again. The words, however, live and die in my throat, and so I do not. Instead, I back away, shaking my head, unable, or unwilling, to keep the fantasy alive anymore. And I close the door on him, unsure if it is an act of preservation or forgetting.

Perhaps it can be both. 

 And I am afraid of just what I have done, afraid and relieved and broken and whole.

* * *

>     _Cain_

 They're all watching me. My children. Bottled and corked and stoppered against all of eternity. Waiting. A collection of poisons passed down from father to son. Strychnine, a poison from the Far East. Introduced to Her Majesty's realm by William Palmer, another murderous physician, in 1856. It's a dramatic poison that brings about uncontrollable spasms and eventual asphyxiation. Its quieter cousin, cyanide. First used to color wallpaper blue, then appropriated by the military. White arsenic—Father's favorite. The inheritance powder, as it's popularly known. I wonder still how much arsenic has accumulated in my body; if it was enough to render me anemic and sickly six years ago, then how much of it still affects me today? Unconsciously, I examine my fingernails for the horizontal, white lines of arsenic poisoning. 

("Nothing to be afraid of," Father told me, one of his reassuring smiles across his face. "Just God reminding you that there are clouds in the sky and furrows in the fields.")

I suppose it's in the Hargreaves blood to have collections: I keep the family collection, while my brother used to take mementos from particularly intriguing victims. I never did ask what became of his sordid hobby, if disembodied eyes and lungs and hearts and intestines are still floating, bobbing in an abandoned, pristine lab somewhere. Probably underground.  How gruesome. And yet, is that not a perfect match for the horrid thoughts in my mind? Is that not proof of my inheritance? How much must I surrender to avert this legacy? Whom must I sacrifice?  

I long for Riff's strong arms, to shield me from my heritage. His soft words and gentle heart. I am so weary of measuring words, all to please the people who would have preferred I had died at birth.  

 The Lord knows all the plans that He has made, the plans of "hope and a future," but I see none. I see a battle that cannot be won, an inheritance that cannot be discarded, and an ever-present poison in my veins. Is that all that became of Cain? A cautionary tale? An object of hatred and pity? Did Cain ever, in the empty wilderness he was condemned to, ever glance back and wish he could put down the stone that slew his brother? 

 Selecting one of the older additions _—_ the peeling label calls it Widow's Flower _—_ for study, I decide on a quiet afternoon of testing it, and the antidote naturally, on some of the hens raised for this purpose. Although the birds will be safe, until their time has come, I will keep my ongoing experimentation a secret from Jezabel. I'm fairly certain he'd liberate them _—_ and then liberate my veins if he ever found out. And the thought of my brother saddens me, for I have tried and failed to reach him. I cannot bear this alone, and yet, it seems that that is my lot. Love is not a state of being, but an action.  

And underneath that, I want to be cared for, rather than the caregiver. Why am I not allowed this? In a few years' time, I will come of age and inherit Father's assets and reputation. And then, my life will be lived in the narrow lines of the aristocracy: parties, Parliament. Idle flattery and investments. Nothing of what gives my life such spark _—_ to set the world, if only for one life, to right by bringing criminals to justice. Father might have escaped, but I can ensure that no others do.

I don't want any more children to have my past if I can help it. 

As I pass through the house, the emptiness of the halls draws my attention. Usually, Mary can be found, carefully evading from her governess, or engaged in some menial activity, but her absence pains me, and against the part of me that argues that for a simple explanation, a tremor courses through me. Surely my brother wouldn't harm her to make a point? Even as the question arises, the terrible answer and the terrible past reveals itself.

I stop Uncle Neil in the hall.  "Where's Mary?" I ask, trying to quell the rising, frantic energy in my body. "With her governess?"

 "I haven't seen her today. Miss Pritchett  says she's been hiding for a few hours now."

"Shouldn't Mary have had luncheon yet?" At his frown of understanding, I continue. "Where's Jezabel?"

Uncle Neil gives me a cautious stare. "What are you suggesting?"

 I only shake my head. "It's nothing."

Panic overtakes me as my old fear resurfaces. Visions of Mary dead. Mary with her eyes cut out. Mary eviscerated, an empty stare the only remainder of her humanity. I reel from the horror, my breath fast against my hand. I have nearly reached the hall, to inquire as to my brother's whereabouts, when I find Jezabel, preoccupied with shaking out his coat.

 "It rained on the way back. Everything is wet." He grimaces. "Cassian has gone in search of a fire to lie beside."

"Where's Mary?" 

 "I took her out," he says nonchalantly. "It was her idea." He surveys my distraught face, and that familiar coldness returns to his voice. "You don't trust me. You never have, have you?"

"I have good reason to."

"And that's what become of your resolution to forge your own fate, then?" 

"I'm not certain that you're the best person to tell me to throw off the shackles of fate." I pause, the unspeakable welling in my chest. "You don't understand these people. You can't fathom what it feels like, to be judged for your behavior. You don't have to relinquish anything. You can have whatever you want, but I _—_ " My hands tighten. "I have to live up to their ideals, or they'll hound me. They'll hold Mary hostage, keep her from being received properly. I have to give up everything. My freedom for her. That has always been the price." I think of Emmeline, lying dead with her opened throat. The one I was forced to become engaged to, in exchange for Mary's formal adoption.

He watches me, bitterness moving across his face. "So you'll give me up, too?"

I avert my gaze, unable to answer. "You make it sound so simplistic. It's not a life for a life. You're free, and I'm not. And that's the difference between us."

"No," he retorts, in his dangerously soft tone, "the difference between us is that you're wanted."

At this strange statement and the jealousy that trails behind it, like a ghost, I cannot help but feel a twinge of sadness. "The world is not black and white. There are some people who can't bring themselves to love back."

"And I'm one of them?"

"I don't know."

"Don't play the coward now. You decided about me a while ago." At my questioning stare, he continues, and for a moment, his bitterness gives way to a melancholy anger. "You _left_ me. I waited for you, but you left me."

And I realise that my nightly absence has been the source of our strife. A trifle, really. But it must have been exceedingly pleasant to have someone after all this time. Someone to be near. My absence must have been interpreted, eventually, as a rejection, and everything after that must have succumbed to confirmation bias. 

" _That_ is what's been bothering you?" I pause. "You had the dog to keep you company. Don't you prefer the company of animals to humans anyway?"

For a moment, it seems as though he means to say something, but he closes his mouth, shaking his head slightly. 

"It's for the best," I add, stiffly. "You don't understand how the family can be."

 As I turn from him, his hand moves, so slightly that I might have missed it. It moves to catch my own, but fails.  I recognize my gesture, the gesture that I must have done a hundred times with him, in his, and a thousand questions spring to my lips. He, however, only stares at the distance between us, lost to some resolution. He pauses to say something, fumbling with the words, but only silence comes of it. He draws another breath _—_

"I miss you." 

It's a breathless, stricken half-whisper, and I wish, instead, he had broken something, struck me, threatened my life. Anything but this. Because this means that time caught up with both of us.

That something melted. 

I search his face, search that disarming look of childlike vulnerability for the answers neither of us possess.  Half apprehensive, and half ready to surrender to the promise of being together. "You're having one on me," I reply, uncertain of myself now. My chest heaving. "Is that it?" 

"I miss you," he repeats, only slightly more firmly.  I'm reminded of the strange time he only screamed "no" at me, as if that was what he had been wanting to say for a while. And I realize that it must have returned _—_ his ability to connect with humanity, not just animals. That he had decided to let me in. 

"Do you, truly?" My voice shakes under the strain. "Do you?"

I throw myself into his arms, crying and crying and crying, like the lost child that I am.  I don't know who I'm crying for, him or me. For the boy who hid his humanity, or the one who was forgotten. Or for the implacable march of time, that stole and returned in equal measure. 

Jezabel, however, stiffens in shock, clearly not expecting my sudden embrace, and I wonder if I have made a fatal error in judgement. I wait for the warmth of my opened veins, but it never comes; instead I become aware of the loudness of his heart. I inhale the scent of the sea that permeates his clothes, his hair, his skin. So unlike Riff's ever-present smell of lavender and soap. The first time, being with him reminded me of Riff's tiny medical cabinet, the holdovers from a promising career cut short: the harshness of chemicals unnaturally concentrated. How strange that change is inevitable.  

 "You're not about to stab me, while going on about our impossible love, are you?" I ask, dryly. Trying to draw attention away from my childish trembling. 

"You really shouldn't give me ideas."

And I only laugh.  Relishing the sensation of being held, I rest my head on his shoulder, running my hand down his back. Then, I smooth the hair from the nape of his neck, gathering it over his shoulder. In turn, he searches my face, lips slightly parted, for answers that neither of us possess. And there is a moment between us, a silence that he takes for something, but what I cannot name. 

"It's true that we shall be monsters cut off from all the world; but on that account," he quotes, "we shall be more attached to one another."

I recognize it immediately as from  _Frankenstein_. And to mask my surprise at the show of comfort, I turn to jesting. "When did you learn literature?" 

He rolls his eyes at me. "Really now. Do you think I spent my life elbow-deep in corpses all the time?"

"Just most of it."

He give this some thought. "Fair enough," he concedes, and I cannot suppress a smirk. As I content myself with running my fingers through his damp hair, he adds, more quietly, "You made me like this."  

 In reply, I only shake my head, unable to tell him that if he has changed, then it is under his own power. My heart trembles at the thought of being together again, to be whole again, and I cling to him, lost in the warmth of being. 

* * *

We are curled together, all limbs and warmth and the thrilling sensation of skin against skin. The linen of the bed, a pleasant addition to the smoothness of his skin. Outside, the rain keeps time, ticking down. If Uncle Neil was pleased to see us together again at supper, he said nothing on it. I suppose even he must see the foolishness of trying to separate us. Even so, we've taken precautions against anyone finding us. Both our bedroom doors are locked, despite the odd glances we are sure to receive in the morning.   

 My hand trails across his face in quiet communion, and as I move to brush away the hair which has fallen across his neck, the silver of a scar peeks out from under his dressing gown. He notices my heavy pause, raising himself up, slightly, and the printed silk slides down, baring one shoulder. His lips parted. 

And for a moment, I wonder just how dangerous such a love could be. There shan't be any children from this, no Biblical revenge cast down from the heavens. If we do so, then we do so of our free will _—_ and not what Father did to Mother. He said that he had wanted to test the boundaries of her love, but this is within ours. Even then, should I?

 I try to calm the quivering in my heart and the flush of heat, whenever he stares at me so. The ever-present question between us again _—_ and then he shakes his head. And I breathe normally again, with the decision made. As I curl into his body, his hand over my waist, a certain peace comes over me. And a strange longing enters my head. He has spoken of his own scars, but I have never seen them in their entirety.  Are they similar to mine?

"Can I? Can I see them?" 

For a moment, that reserve returns to him, and I regret my question, sensing that I have found the limit to our regained closeness. He tries to ascertain my motives with a searching stare of his, but then he decides something. What, I cannot tell. And with that, he slowly disrobes, and for some reason, I help him, freeing his skin until his body is laid bare to me, and we are both before each other, both undressed. I pause at the gauze around his forearm, as my old worry returns. Surely not? Surely, he wouldn't?

"It was an accident."

His stiffness on the matter tells me that I have nothing to gain by questioning him, but I cannot suppress the slight guilt in my heart, as misplaced as it is. And my fingers, in turn, fall down the sharp, artificial line across his center. And I try to imagine what it must have been like, to awaken in intense pain from being cut open and the knowledge that someone's hands have rummaged inside one's body. That someone has broken the boundaries that delineate the insides from the outsides. From oneself and others. 

My thoughts turn inward, as I follow the curve of another raised, ropy scar, a spillover from Father's punishments. If there is a story on my body, then what would it say? I suffered? I lived? That despite it all, I lived? And I trace them, absentmindedly, trying to reconstruct the sensations _—_ the pain, the quiet horror. The isolation. And for a moment, I am twelve again and a ghost made pale by arsenic, and it is all too much. I clutch at him, forgetting myself, afraid of what we have done, and afraid that Riff was wrong about me.    

I suppose that, if a maid were to intrude on us, it might be taken as confirmation of my _inheritance_. But it is not. This is deeper than the bonds of the flesh. This is something that stirs in my bones and sets my heart alight. Everything is bearable in the knowledge that I am not alone in my experiences. That if this poison runs through my veins, then it runs through his as well. I do not fear tainting him with my poison _—_ unlike Riff. 

I used to keep myself awake, praying fervently for understanding the way that some men pray for love. And when I could not find understanding, I sought the pleasures of the flesh to ameliorate my solitude. My exile that I have only realized lately was self-imposed. And I wonder if my brother has also come to that realization. I remember what it was like, to try to reach out to those I had not dared to love, because everything I loved was taken away. And it's a frightening notion to have a body that won't last and memories that won't persist. And if there is a story that will be told about me, years and years from now, it will be only hearsay. Half a story to accompany a portrait. Even my words will not last, for the learned men all say that, eventually, the sun will become like Chronos, eater of its own children.

 I try to forget my fears in the warmth of his body.I still do not know what to make of this almost-closeness that neither of us can relinquish. It's not brotherly love, but we might get there yet. We have the same soul, whatever it may be.  

As I continue to touch his scars, I realize that in some places, his nerves have been deadened. Like mine. A mischievous thought leaps into my mind, and to test my theory, I run a quick finger from one of the deadened spots to an unblemished patch. His gasp of half-shock and half-delight confirms my suspicion. A faint flush on his face. He takes in a breath, unable to suppress a wanton grin. 

"What was that?" he manages, his chest heaving. 

Smirking, I repeat it, moving my fingers across his back. Starting at a shoulder, and slowly trailing along his back, resisting the urge to trace my path with my mouth. The muscles of his back tremble and his tendons twitch under the stimulation, and I cannot suppress a strange satisfaction that I am the source of his pleasure. I follow the scars to the unmarred places again and again, delighting in his soft gasps, ignoring the ensuing flush of heat in my own body. 

And we fall down, laughing and laughing at our foolishness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing about the Cornwall house. We never see it again after the early volumes of the series, because all the action gets moved to London, and I think that's a real shame. Cain canonically burns down the London residence to spite Evil Riff, and after re-reading it, I was annoyed none of the characters remembered that the ancestral home was in Cornwall, and they just moved in with Uncle Neil instead. Or at least, I think they did, because the new house shown was in/near London and not the Cornwall place.  
> It's also entirely possible that I am giving this too much thought. Anyway...  
> So, scar-touching is my fav trope for the fandom. That and hurt/comfort.  
> Today's bible quote's from Jeremiah 29:11. ("For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.") Chapter title comes from Proverbs 17:17 (A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.)  
> Thank you for continuing to read! I'd love to know what you thought!


	10. Ever in the Noonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets intense unsettlingly fast. That's the only warning I can give.

>   _Jezabel_

Father's there again. Walking steadily away from me, cast in shadows. And in all my unfaithfulness, I only stand there, as the distance between us stretched into the night. Mute and angry, as he carries on without me. Never casting a glance backwards. I awake with a start, half hoping, half fearing to see him at the foot of my bed, that smirk on his thin lips. His glasses flecked with blood, and his eyes far, far too bright. Crowned with pipe smoke.

As I warily survey the darkened room, only Cassian's snores, however, meet me. A paw twitches in sleep, and for a moment, I bury my face in his fur, trying to calm myself. Trying to suppress my panic. As I raise myself up, Cain's arm, limp and heavy from sleep, slides from its place around my shoulders. He stirs slightly, inhaling deeply, as he turns to lie on his back. His hair flung across the pale of his face. He mumbles something, but it goes unheard in the rustling of the blankets. 

The night is still, no birds call out to their kith and kin, no clouds conceal the moon. The sky pools past the curtains onto the floorboards. And in that eerie, exposed lifelessness, that fear gnaws at me again. That there is a terror just beyond. But what? What is the calamity that awaits? 

The center is gone—that little unseen line between the world and me. Somehow, it has crept away in the night, and left my insides painfully exposed. Left me undone and uncontained. I half feel as if I will dissolve, or disappear. Perhaps, the Bible will alleviate this skinless unease. Psalms, perhaps. Or Genesis, before Adam and Eve. When the lamb lay down with the lion. And all the animals spoke but one tongue. 

 As I move to leave the warmth of the shared bed, I glance back—and am struck by the awareness that the door has closed on this form of closeness between us. This is only a reprieve from the isolation that will return with the morning. And with that, the warmth becomes a mockery—and a reminder of my inheritance. Cain mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Riff," and I cannot say whom I despise more in that moment, Cain or Riff. Cain, for touching the marks that I have kept hidden for so long, or Riff, for having the audacity to die, and in doing so, become untouchable in his saintliness. A symptom of death. 

(And I hold no such claim in Cain's heart.) 

 That old rage returns, so easy to summon, so difficult to control. Even as I try to leave the past behind, this intense rage will not be gone. And it brings that old question with it. Gathering the silk to my skin, feeble barrier that it is, I coldly withdraw from the bed, and out of idle curiosity, I search my coat pockets for a scalpel. Leaving my decision to the mercy of Fate, as to whether or not it will provide the instrument of our destruction. Scalpel, or not. Love, or not. Its answer, as always, comes in the thin metal, and its lightness promises me an ending. Cain won't be marriageable without his eyes. 

He'll belong to me, at last. Something, at least, will be mine. And should I not take my dues, as the dispossessed bastard?

Detached, I turn his face slightly, noticing how one side has been reddened slightly from resting on the pillow. He's an object now, a curiosity, an answer to my question—will my desire for him cease when he belongs to me? When all that marks and marrs him belongs to me?

Cain sighs exquisitely, and his bare form simply begs to opened, tenderly. Like the beauties of the previous century: the waxen women whose insides revealed themselves so neatly, models meant to seduce and instruct with their real hair and real eyelashes. So far removed from the apathy of the medical diagrams. 

(I wonder how much of an inconvenience it will be to find some anesthetic in the back of his ghastly collection. Something to render him nicely pliable and agreeable for an hour or so. Of course, I could slice out his eyes,quickly, but that would be distasteful and a disservice to his great beauty, which must be savored.) 

His head falls further, as I trail my fingers around the tendons and the pale, exposed skin. The veins half-buried among the muscles. Cassian only watches me, something akin to sadness weighing down his form. 

(You ought not.)

Cain's lips are inviting as the fruit of the goblin men, who tempted that maiden. The fruit that made her lips so sticky, the fruit that drove her to madness and sin. He doesn't stir under my touch, unaware that his throat is bared to me. I follow the lines of worry that have gathered around his eyes, and an almost pity comes over me. He is aging too—if he had lived my life, would his hair have greyed as well? Desire stirs in me, moves to me to cup his face. His lashes flutter in sleep, and my hand trembles in anticipation.  

(You ought not.)

And yet, despite his warning, I remain unmoved. "You shouldn't tell me what I ought to do."  Because the morning will be here soon enough. 

(You know that won't solve a damn thing, Doctor.)

 _Still_ at it. 

"You're very irritating when you try to moralize." I reply coldly, forgetting his animal form in my irritation. No, it feels as through we are back in Delilah, and he is scolding me about some trifle. I keep my words sharp and cold. "Perhaps, if you find such matters distasteful, you ought to wait outside."

 (You'll ruin your life.)

"It was already ruined." I fumble with the door, holding it ajar. "Will you go quietly, or not?"

The dejected slouch of his back is his only answer, and as he leaves, shame burns at me. Shame over how easily my cruelty comes to me. The door closes, and another door closes between us. For a moment, I long to open it, to unmake this cruelty that I did not mean, but I do not move. I have chosen damnation over the love I longed for from Father.  If I was wiser, or weaker, or just a kind man, I might have given in. But my heart is hard, and cruelty and I are bedfellows. 

 I return to the path I have chosen, my heart hollow. This bears little resemblance to how I had imagined this transgression. And alone, I eat the fruit of the goblin men. There's brandy on his lips, and sin on mine. But no matter how hard I press my lips to his, there's a distance that I cannot bridge _—_

_Eat me, drink me, love me—_

Breathless, I watch him. He stirs a little, his lips left parted. I cannot hear anything, save the sudden loudness outside _—_ one of the nightjars dares to stray into the night, mapping the dark with its spiraling call.   

_—make much of me;_

I want to laugh or scream at this distance. Laugh, because _what else_ could I expect, and scream, because I cannot escape my curse. If Cain's curse was to bear the scars upon his back, then mine is to bear the  eternal isolation. I'll kill us both—I know that. I'll take of his body, and he'll take of mine—and I'll kill us both, because that is how love ends. Then no one can separate us in hell—I'll be there for taking what belongs to God, and he for incest. 

 I kiss him again, more insistently now. Wanting to wake him and see the languid desire widen his mouth. And I get ahead of myself—the scalpel rests near his left eye, ready to excavate that prized jewel. Love and death have always been inseparable for me. On the blade, a perfect mirror of his perfect eyes, enclosed in lashes and eyelids. Swaddled in skin and bone. A twitch of my wrist—a scrape of skin. The cut blanches under the thin weight, and then reddens with the ensuing flush of blood. A red thread in the pale flesh—if I pull it, he'll come undone. And then no one can put him back together again. No one will want to.

A laugh escapes me. Fevered and deranged. It is so easy now. Everything finally makes sense. This is how the family curse ends. I want to stab out Cain's eyes, with no care as to their preservation now. Can he bear this scar as well? (Or maybe it's my own eyes I want to stab out?) All I know is that the dream of warmth has ended, and now I must face the morning. And I don't want to. I'd prefer hell to this. 

Fevered scratching at the door. God damn it. God damn him. God damn us both. Cassian won't leave me to ruin myself, out of some misplaced devotion.  And fear grips me again. What if Cain wakes now, to find me over him with the blade? What will he think of me? I've been so careless. What have I done? _Mea culpa. Mea culpa_. The rest of the words follow, practiced and unsaid— _in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do._

Reluctantly, I move from him, my heart sinking under the weight of what I have committed. If I'm destined for hell for this, then isn't it just to be guilty of all of it? Cain stirs, and for a moment, before me is Father—and Cain, as he must have been, when he was younger. When Father—

I recoil from both, as if burned.

Is this why I desire to be with my kin? What if it is not the family curse that compels me so, but rather some horrid conclusion to what Father and I have done?  Sensation no longer registers in my body; my breath comes ragged, and the blood drains from my face. What have I done? Am I guilty now too? 

A low whimper from the door. A plea.

I, in turn, only crumple to the floor, defeated. With only the thin red thread to say just what had occurred. In his loose form, sprawled among the covers, through the wetness that clouds the room, the inescapable truth stares back at me—that he is not mine. That he will never be mine.  _Mea culpa. Mea culpa_.

 "Jezabel!"

At the sound of my name, I startle and glance up—to find no one. And I cannot even say whose voice it was. Cain continues to slumber, blissfully unaware of how close he came to death. As I continue to examine it, like a patient upon the vivisection table, I remember how I heard Cain's voice turning it into Father's. How I could not shake myself of the conviction that Cassandra had returns—and all the pieces start to make a horrid sense. I start to cry again, knowing that I am only following Augusta into the madhouse. That this is God's vengeance on me for my sinful ways. That I will be aware of my madness even as I descend into it. 

 Cassian has grown silent, and I clutch at myself, unsure of what is left to me. Should I leave, before the madness takes hold? I can't tell anyone. 

 A light tug on the sleeve of my dressing gown provokes a momentary fear in me. But it's only Cain. He sighs heavily, not quite awake, not quite cognizant of the situation. With every heavy breath, his chest falls and rises, moving his bones. His eyes still closed. 

"Go back to sleep," he mumbles. Half annoyed, half tender. 

I fumble for my voice. "I don't want to,"  I manage at last. My voice thickened with tears and petulance. 

"Then quiet down." He sighs again, still half asleep. "Lie back down, and think of all the ways you hate me so.  Once you've reached fifty or so, I wager you'll be asleep. I'll give you the first one—I hate Cain so, because he is charming."

"Charming? How _generous_ of you." Even in my state, I can still keep my words as sharp as his.

He smirks a little and opens those lovely eyes of his. Golden green in the remnants of the night. "I hear the Americans count sheep to fall asleep, but you'd try to rescue them all. And make them sleep in beds. With little flannel night caps."

In spite of myself, a little smile tugs at my lips. "Perhaps."

"Happy sheep it is, then. Fat as a cloud, happier than Mary and cherry cake." He sets the covers aside, and I'm annoyed at his ability to charm me so. "Things always look better in the mornings."

"Not this time." I have the urge to push away from him, to flee. But an unnameable sorrow deadens my limbs, and so I remain, uneasy, beside him. Knowing that the moment is lost. A thousand confessions leap to my lips, unsaid—most strongly, _I went against God and damned us both. I tried to kill you. Not certain if I'll try again. The odds don't favor us._ And in the corner, the stricken whisper of _I'm going mad_. 

"Then we shall have to make it better, won't we?" 

" _Can_ you?"

He surveys me, vaguely suspicious. Propped on a bare elbow. "For a man who raised the dead, you certainly have your doubts."

"You don't have enough." 

"Fair enough," he concedes, already exasperated. "Uncle Neil is correct: I'm wild and foolhardy and reckless. Now, will you _please_ go back to bed." At the renewed scratching at the door and finding Cassian gone, he gives me a look of  annoyance. One that is lessened by his long, sleep-ridden blinks. "Have you been feuding with the dog? I thought you liked animals." 

I shake my head, unable to voice my foolishness. Afraid that if I tell him that, then everything else might spill out.  

 He exhales in frustration, before rolling over on his side. Gathering the blankets around him. "Forgive the dog, let him back in, and go back to sleep." An almost-tenderness comes over me, underneath the fear and shame. He seems so breakable, nestled under the covers. With his delicate bird bones.

I find Cassian already curled next to the door, like a sentinel. Worry in his eyes, as I crouch beside him. I want to confess my foolishness, but nothing comes. Instead, we remain there, close and hurt and yet, despite it all, that bond remains. That bond in Cain and Riff that I mocked and feared and resented. But it seems to be stronger than all my rage and distance.

How frightful.

Still, I have hurt him, and the price for my cruel words is that he stays where he has lain. My heart heavy, I return to Cain. He gives me a strange look, as if wanting to ask me something, and I only shake my head in reply. I sink under his arms, trying to forget my transgressions. My thoughts turn towards the morning, and a certain dread returns. 

* * *

> _Cain_

 The morning finds us disheveled, entangled, and warm. As per usual, the majority of the blankets have migrated over to Jezabel's side of the bed, and yet, I cannot be vexed with him. I run a furtive hand along the curve of his face, a strange blend of desire and brotherly protectiveness stirring within me. He only continues to sleep, the lines of his face giving way to a lost look. As I leave the bed, the blankets stir slightly. 

"Sleep in if you want. Uncle Neil won't mind."

While I examine my face in the mirror, more vanity than a need to shave, I notice a faint red line near my left eye. I frown, scrutinizing it. How strange. I cannot remember engaging in an activity that would leave such a mark; my first thought flees back to Jezabel, but I dismiss it. If he desired my eyes, then surely, I would have awoken sightless, rather than with a mere scrape. With that fear suppressed, I turn towards the daily task of living without Riff. Levinson will, no doubt, be annoyed to find my door locked, but given that I do not allow him to dress me, I doubt he will be too distraught. 

I scan my clothes from yesterday. The shirt will have to be washed, but I should be able to wear the trousers again. Perhaps, I'll borrow a shirt from Jezabel. We should be nearly the same size now, and Uncle Neil will scold me if I take breakfast in soiled clothes. It will be easier than sneaking back down the hall to my bed chambers, hiding from the servants. Or at least, that's what I'll tell Jezabel.

I begin to rifle through his wardrobe, and Jezabel peers sleepily behind the blankets. 

"You've gotten taller," he says, in an oddly petulant voice. 

I shrug, as I continue my search. "It's not uncommon."

He crosses his arms, glaring at the table. His fingers tapping out his annoyance.  "Still," he begins again. "Taller."

"Jezabel, I swear to all the gods in the Greek pantheon that I will be cross with you if you suggest I stop nature to appease you." I pause, collecting my thoughts. "Life is not some science experiment to bend to your will." He opens his mouth to begin with his favorite argument to the contrary—that yes, life is plenty pliable under the right conditions—but I continue on. "And besides, why should it bother you if I am taller?" And then, I hit upon it, the reason why he is so petulant about the entire affair. "You think I'll be taller than you one day?"

"Not one day." He shifts slightly. "It's not decent for you to be taller."

"Blame Father for that." I cannot keep a smirk from my lips. I suppose it's the vestige of a brotherly desire older than our namesakes, but the idea that I might, one day, be taller than my brother thrills me. 

He sulks a little at this, before the dog distracts him. They seem to have moved past whatever slight troubled them last night. That low desire returns as I catch the pale of his limbs, before the dressing gown glides down to cover them. I want to slide the silk away, to caress—with great difficulty, I force those dangerous, unwanted thoughts from my mind.  

 "I considered leaving here as Elizabeth from Manchester," I cheerfully admit, as I finish my selection. "Thought it might be great fun to liven up the place."

 Jezabel frowns as he tries to ascertain if that was truly my plan. "You wouldn't dare."  

"I didn't want to blemish your bachelor reputation," I reply with a smirk, closing the wardrobe doors. "Would have made sneaking out easier, though." I'm not certain why I want to bring this topic up again. Perhaps, deep down, it's a warning that these feelings are dangerous.  I wish he had decided to leave, but perhaps it was foolish of me to force it. Apparently, neither of us relish having our choices made for us.

"Neil would have caught you, and made you take breakfast."

"Uncle Neil would have thrown you a party to find out that you had warm blood like the rest of us." 

He frowns a little. "I don't."

I shrug on the shirt. "We could still have one on Uncle Neil."

"You're terribly eager to crossdress." He smirks, turning his gaze to the pale outsides. Fog whitens the world, and as he continues to stare, sorrow unconsciously returns to him. For a moment, he seems as if he wants to tell me something, but he remains silent, and I am reminded that this moment is over between us. That this cannot occur again, not without repercussions. As we continue to dress, I force my eyes on my own clothes, ignoring the quivering of my heart. I begin to lace up my shoes, my hands still unaccustomed to the act. 

"You tie your own shoes now?" he asks lightly.

 I do not answer, instead giving him a self-confident smile that does not reach my heart. "Shall we go down?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of an interlude than a chapter. Chapter title is from "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti.
> 
> The waxen women that Jezabel refers to are very real. They were popular as a teaching tool in the 1700s and were eventually replaced by the more gender-neutral diagrams in Gray's Anatomy (1858), which Jezabel would have likely learned from, had he actually lived. The BBC has a great article about them. And that's your morbid medical fact for the month.
> 
> The line about the fruit of the goblin men is a reference to Christina Rossetti's "Goblin Market" and is just as disturbingly erotic as it is suggested to be. As in, disturbingly erotic in a way you probably never knew the Victorians were. The rhyme scheme is jarring, the imagery painfully unsubtle. In fairness, however, I'm 90% sure she never intended for her work to be used like this, chopped up between a dubcon incest scene. Sorry, Ms. Rossetti. 
> 
> And the part about Cain getting taller than Jezabel was stolen, er, borrowed with love from Syri. Because the idea makes me giggle and I can see it happening.
> 
> As always, much love and gratitude to you all, the readers. Let me know what you thought of this chapter, if you'd like!


	11. Letters

> _Cain_

As wepass into the drawing room, we find the familiar sight of the sweeping openness of the room, with the unfamiliar pair of Mary's governess, Miss Pritchett, and Uncle Neil in low conversation. Her face is set in determination; her black hair coiled and curled immaculately at the back of her head. All in all, she appears far older than a woman in her late twenties. 

Ar my arrival, she glances at me, all weary politeness. "Good morning, Earl." Her voice has the ring of one who has grown accustomed to being obeyed. "Doctor."

I flash her a grin. Half preparing to take her by the hand and whisper lovely nonsense in her ear. As I frequently do with Mary's  governesses. Under his breath, Jezabel mutters something about "lecherous brothers," to my vast amusement. 

"Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to try with Mary again?" Uncle Neil asks her, seemingly unaware of us.

She shakes her head. "One cannot teach the unwilling." 

 Uncle Neil pauses. "Very well," he begins carefully. "I suppose you would like a letter of reference."

She nods, outwardly composed, but uneasy at being watched. "If possible."

"It will be done." 

She nods again. "Allow me to take my leave then." She gives me a taut smile, as she rises and exits the room.

Uncle Neil exhales, frustrated, and  turns to us. His gaze lingers on Jezabel, as if there is something he wishes to discuss with him, and in return, Jezabel crosses his arms again, uncomfortable, and stares out the window at the meadow. I am deeply puzzled and slightly intrigued at this. 

Before either of them can begin what is clearly bothering them, there's a knock at the door. Holding Mary by her upper arm, a flustered maidservant pulls her into the room. Dirt covers Mary's pinafore and marrs her face. Her gingham dress is torn in several places. She must have been hiding this time in the hothouse, when the delicate plants are raised.  

 "That will do, Gertrude." With a nod, Uncle Neil dismisses the maid. 

 Before us, Mary fidgets, unconsciously wiping her hands on her pinafore. She then begins to twirl one strand of her long hair. 

"Why," Uncle Neil begins in a gentler tone, "have you been hiding from your governess? This is the second one who leaves. Do you want your Aunt Katherine to teach you again?"

Mary shakes her head. 

"Then tell me why you keep hiding from them." 

She gives me the quick glance of a field mouse, before shaking her head again. Her hands bury themselves in her dress. 

Uncle Neil sighs. "You cannot be a great lady without knowing anything."

"I know," she ventures in an uncharacteristically timid voice, unnerved. 

"Then, why? Have they been treating you unkindly?"

Another shake of her head, and relief shows on Uncle Neil's face. "Then what is troubling you?"

She stares at the floor, a pained expression on her face. "Anyone can die at any time," she says quietly. "I don't want to be studying if—if—"

I can easily fill in the absence. If one of her loved ones will die soon. Life must be so fragile, so fleeting to her. Guilt comes over me. I did this to her, with my inability to shield her from the harshness of life. 

Pity shows on Uncle Neil's face. "I see. Go back to your room. I'll tell your nurse to give you your tea."

Mary nods, her fingers grasping at her dress. And when she leaves, a heavy silence falls among us. Uncle Neil shakes his head in frustration and perhaps even sadness.

And I cannot escape the knowledge that this is all because of me.

* * *

 "There's nothing for her."

Against the renewed metronome of rain, Father's study seems almost comforting. I lounge at his desk, the wide windows at my back. If I look closely enough, I can see which panes of glass and pieces of wood were replaced after Father's leap into the sea. After all this time, I can still tell. (But will Time? Or will this be another secret it takes for itself?)

Jezabel, however, only continues stroking the dog. "This is news to you?" His fingers curl to scratch under its chin. 

I lean forward from the chair. "When I die, she will inherit nothing."

Having its fill of scratching, the dog shakes itself. Jezabel watches it, his face soft and gentle. And then it hardens again, when he returns to me. "She's not the only one," he amends, in a quietly dangerous, bitter tone. 

"She'll become part of Oscar's family."

"He has a family?" 

"Not precisely. He's been disinherited."

Jezabel rolls his eyes. "Oh, how charming. Your only sister given to a penniless womanizer."

I silence my insistence that she is his sister as well, out of weariness, and settle on a different approach. "Don't you ever worry about what will happen after one is gone?"

"I presume the world will continue on. It's gotten in the habit of that, and habits are such dreadful things to break." He moves to allow the dog to leave and wander the halls, no doubt. A lost look on his face as he watches it go. He seems a little unsteady in his movements. 

"I want her taken care of."

"Has it been bothering you, then? What she said to Neil?" he asks lightly, as if he has come to some understanding of human emotions. 

"It hasn't bothered you? That our sister lives in mortal terror? That she cannot continue her schooling out of fear that everyone she loves will die?" At my increasing loudness, Jezabel pales a little, and I soften my voice. "She deserves better. Don't you see?"

"They _will_ , though. Everyone will die one day." He gives me a strange look. "You will die, and I will die, and she will die, and Cassian will die. We will all die one day." And with that, he quietly dares me to contradict him.

I wet my lips, my heart clamoring as I pull the words from my mouth. "That's what I'm afraid of," I confess. "What if all she remembers of me is how I let her down. How I stole her childhood. How I couldn't protect her."

"Nonsense. She adores you."

"She doesn't know any better. But when she's older, will she resent me?"

"You sound like Neil." Jezabel is clearly becoming more uncomfortable at comforting me. I suppose such acts do not come easily to him. 

"Do you still resent me?" 

He exhales, shaking his head in his unwillingness to answer that question. Which is an answer in itself, though what I am uncertain. 

I don't know if I want to confront him about the mark, the telltale sign of the animosity and desire that remains between us. That, surely, must be the reason for his reserve towards me. I can try to overlook it, but I know truly that it was his work. But what does it mean? Why did he stop, if obtaining my eyes was his goals?

"You sound like an old man," he says, slightly annoyed. "On his deathbed. Regretting his choices."

"You don't regret your choices?"

He shrugs. "Were they mine?"

"I think so. That's all we have in the end."

"And is this the end?" he asks, carefully, searching my face.

I soften, sensing his hidden question. "I won't leave you."

"That's not a promise you can keep."

"True." I bite my lip in thought. "But I swear it, for as long as it is in my power to do so. However long that might be." 

Another long look, before he stares at the flickering wallpaper, clearly wrestling with something. "When I was with Father, I wanted his death so badly, if only because it would be an end to all of this. And now... now, I can only see the inevitable. It's only a matter of who dies first."

"You can't separate love and loss."

"I wouldn't call it love, no," he counters. "It's more familiarity than anything."

"Doesn't matter what you call it." For some reason, I am keenly aware of the distance between us. "Familiarity is a kind of love."

Perhaps it is merely a trick of the light, but for some reason, he looks unspeakably sad. "You're always looking for things that aren't there." 

"It's a fault of mine," I concede. "Besides, you have a good nine years on me, so leave the worrying to me."

 His face darkens, no doubt at the reminder of his own, closer mortality, and I wish I could take my careless words back. I try not to linger on the prospect of yet another death in my life, but it remains, always a step behind me. Love and death. Perhaps they are inseparable. Now that I know my brother, I fear his death, as he fears mine. But at the end, we are only dust and blood,  inevitably erased by the tides. Perhaps, a hundred years from now, they will find our photographs and simply write down _unknown_. Gazing at our faces, and wondering and surmising, but never knowing.

No, I am an earl, and so my name will be recorded. Another spot on the family tree, another line connecting my name to the woman I will marry, to the children I will have. And in those lines, a thousand moments of joy and fear, longing and loss. Love and death. 

My life has been decided, and yet, there is so much that lies undecided. Will I love her, the woman my family will eventually persuade me to marry? Will we have something beyond the politely formal relationships of the nobility? Or will I abandon my familial duties to Mary, and let her carry on the line, if not the accursed name? And when I wear the face of my father, years and years from now, will I recoil from the looking glass, or will I find it within me to make peace with the Lord of the Flies? Not for his sake—never his—but my own.  

Jezabel finds some interest in thumbing through a new novella. A fantastic story about time-travel  by H.G. Wells. He's already begun to annotate the passages that are either factually incorrect or ludicrous, but I don't tell him that it is absurd of him to say what is impossible, when he has spent years of his life breaking the final law of God. The silence of death.

I return to my task, to amend what may be softened. I cannot pass the title down to Mary; English laws forbid it. Nor can I give her the house and the land after my death. That will be bequeathed to her closest male relative, in keeping with the inheritance laws. When Father inherited, however, he did not sign the paperwork binding him to the family tradition of leaving every scrap of land and paper to the eldest, closest male relative, to the chagrin of the family—something the family immediately rectified with me. I remember being twelve and made to sign heaps of papers for the nodding, looming solicitors. 

What that means is that Father had the ability to amend the inheritance in a way that I do not. And it is in Father's voice that I must set this to right. He might not have cared what became of his children, but I can make sure Mary is cared for when I am no longer living. She will receive a   considerable pension from the estate in the realm of several thousand pounds per year, which will belong only to her, and not her husband. That way, she will not have to depend on the kindness of the family, nor the competence of Oscar. Of course, I hope she will continue to live at the Cornwall estate after my death, but in any case, I want her provided for. Rather than name Mary outright, which would raise suspicion, I have included her in the ambiguous category of "any children that will not inherit the estate." That should provide for both Mary and Jezabel, and ease the guilt in my heart.

"Is there anything you want from the inheritance?" I ask lightly. "I can't do the impossible, but..." I leave the implications hanging.

Without glancing up from the book, he shakes his head. I frown at this, but say nothing, instead turning my thoughts to how I'll have to forge Father's signature. Comparing my attempts at his characteristic, bombastic scrawl on a scrap, I try again. 

Jezabel wanders over, apparently bored now, to inspect my meager attempts. "Father's last will? Do you think that will work on the family?"

"Yes," I reply, stubbornly. "Wicked as he was, he was also not one to submit to their rules. And who is to say that he could not have harbored regret?"

He gives me a skeptical look. "I think that's your wish." Then he shrugs, laughing softly to himself at my perceived foolishness, as he picks up the pen. "Give it here." 

"You'll ruin the paper," I protest, unhappy at the notion that I might have to rewrite the document. 

He says nothing, laying the paper flat, and before I can voice another objection, he perfectly replicates Father's signature. I stare at him, half bewildered at his secret talent, half amused. 

"Father was not in the habit of keeping a well-stocked laboratory," he replies to my unasked question. "Nor was he able to run a household, let alone a secret organization." 

"You naughty creature," I remark, unable to contain my astonishment. I suppose, beyond the practicalities of life at Delilah, he must have seized this as a way to be closer to Father. "I suppose, next, you'll tell me that you wrote his letters for him."

He tries to suppress a faint smile at this, and I cannot keep from grinning in return.

* * *

 As I move to tuck away the unused papers, something in the pile catches my eye. The seams of a thin letter, yellowed with age.

_To My Darling Boy._

I frown. This is not Aunt Augusta's writing, for I've seen the frenzied letters she sent Uncle Neil from the asylum. Her words often bleed into each other, and frequently her thoughts simply end in a dash or leap to something unrelated. She writes about seeing Father in the windows, how he tells her to fly. How Father has put a curse on her, and her hair keeps falling out. How she fears the outside world, because it's boundless. How her attendant is in league with Father, and how she loves the peonies Uncle Neil sent her. How she sees God in the flowers and the birds, and plays the pianoforte until her fingers are sore because she cannot tell if it's God's voice or her own. What pains me the most is the closing to a letter in which she begs him to visit her soon, because she's terribly lonely in her head.

I've read all the letters Uncle Neil ever received, translated their dates to my own life, like a foreign language. The language of what came before me. And yet, this unbearable inability to know her beyond the tormented woman who leapt to her death and begged me to escape in her final glimmers of lucidity haunts me still. 

I fight back the twinges of jealousy and wonder, as I realize whom its intended recipient must be. Ten years too late, I presume, but perhaps not unwelcome. 

"This is for you." 

Jezabel averts his gaze from his novel. He coldly studies the handwriting for only a moment, before recognition briefly lights his eyes, and then his face darkens. "I don't want it. Throw it in the fire."

"Are you sure? It's from your mo—"

" _I said_ ," he begins in that dangerous, soft tone, " _throw it in the fire._ What do I care what a dead woman wrote?" He crossed his arms more stiffly than usual, and glares at the fire. 

"Are you certain?" I cannot fathom how he could so easily refuse what might be some of the few remaining testaments to his mother's life. That she felt and lived and made choices. 

 Mute hatred, however, narrows his eyes, and tightens his lips. And that little fear rises in me again, that ever-present fear. I try not to think of the mark near my eye. 

"I was thirteen when she died," he begins, stiffly, at last. "It had been raining, and that was the only way I could sleep. Hearing the tap of the rain. It was almost peaceful; it was one of the few nights Father didn't beat me. Rain always made him too tired." He smiles nastily at this, almost a grimace, as he reminds me about one of Father's favorite pastimes. A far-away look comes into his eyes, as he returns to the memory of rain; for a moment, his face softens, and then it hardens again. "I had almost dozed off, when I heard her crying at the door for me. She collapsed in my bedroom, one hand to her throat. Her voice strained, yet she kept shrieking as if she intended for the entire house to hear.

"I watched her spit up blood in front of me, and I was _overjoyed_." Bitterness distorts his face, and his hands clench into fists. "She pleaded with me, as she died. _Please, please, please...,"_ he mocks. " _My darling boy, please forgive me. Forgive your poor mother_."He shakes his head stiffly."She finally got her comeuppance. She _deserved_ it. If Father hadn't killed her, I might have." He challenges me to say something in her defense. A moment of dangerous anger stretches into a steely stubbornness, before he continues, averting his gaze. The fight slowly leaves, and his shoulders droop. 

" _What a wicked child_ , the servants all said. _He just watched her die. Good wombs can bear bad fruit_. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was a wicked son. But she was a wicked woman. A Medea, who butchered her children to soothe herself." He fidgets slightly, staring at the fire, as if he cannot bear to look at me. "She _knew,_ " he says flatly _._ "It took me almost a year, but I told her about Father's _interest._ " There's a faint pause as he closes his eyes tightly against whatever image resurfaced. I can guess, all too easily, what that might be. 

He swallows, as if to hold something back, and directs his attention to the clock on the fireplace mantel. "She set down her embroidery," he continues, even more quietly, his anger and bitterness thinly veiled in the heaving of his chest, "stared at the table set, and told me that Father couldn't have meant anything _unfriendly_. That I should be grateful he even took an interest in me, given my birth. And didn't I have my studies to return to?" He bites back a harsh laugh. "She wouldn't even look at me."

I can surmise what happened after that. The wreckage must have been terrifying. 

I never told anyone about what Father did. Riff was too gentle to inquire, and I couldn't bear the notion that he might think me soiled for it. It's only now, that I realize that he never did. He must have seen it in the way I'd test him with a heady mixture of seduction and vulnerability. Riff, to his eternal credit, only smiled and clothed me all the times I snuck below stairs with a "stomachache." I'd fall asleep in his bed, lavender and soap surrounding me like a blanket as he pretended to doze in a chair, and unfailingly, I would awake in my own bed. Fully clad in the starched nightgown I shed in a vain attempt at control. 

But I can guess how easily one can not be so fortunate. London is rife with people who are content to take of what is offered, no matter the intention. I wonder, not for the first time, if that is how he met Lord Gladstone, for I know how _that_ ended, but not how it began.

Jezabel picks a little at the side of his fingernail, unnerved by the silence but also unwilling to break it. It takes me a moment before I realize that his periodic glances at me are his attempts to gauge my reaction. A strange pity comes over me; part of me wants to soothe him, smooth the hair from his forehead and stroke his cheek, the way I would comfort Mary, but the practical rest of me knows that he will refuse it. And so I remain at the desk, a strange weakness in my legs, even as my throat burns with pity and our unspeakable kinship.    

I wonder if this blend of fear and kinship, almost-trust and pity and distance, will always color our relationship, or if one day, we will share something beyond a desperation to be understood. 

He waits a few more moments, his gaze opaque and unseeing. His back to me, he tells the fire, "I'll be going down now." His voice hollowed with a certain bitterness and melancholy. 

I mean to tell him not to do anything foolish, but he's gone before I manage to open my mouth. And I am angry with myself for not being able to speak, to acknowledge what I have been burdened with. 

Staring at the thin letter, I turn it over, unsure of what to find in it. The scrawling letters hold no trappings of a malice to rival Father's, but I cannot confess to bearing any goodwill towards this woman. At the same time, I cannot bear to dispose of it, as all the evidence points to the idea that Father never intended for it to be discovered. I turn it over again, before my instincts as London's gentleman detective take over, and I tuck it into my coat for safekeeping. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this, weirdly enough, became more about mothers than I had intended. One of the great mysteries of the series is when and how Jezabel's mother died, and I think she might have died from poison, given that Alexis really only knows one way to kill off someone. He's actually pretty predictable that way. 
> 
> Ms. Pritchett finally makes an appearance! Only to leave. Her name is directly borrowed from Alice Liddell's governess, who is thought by some to be the model for the Red Queen in Through the Looking Glass. Yes, I am that much of a dork. It fit nicely with the Alice in Wonderland reference with the Hargreaves name--which is Alice Liddell's married name. I had to continue the tradition, ok?
> 
> Much love and gratitude to my readers. As always, your feedback is loved and cherished.


	12. A Matter of Time

> _Jezabel_

 The world is strangely difficult to move through. The printed words prove elusive, and halfway through my fourth attempt at parsing a paragraph, Neil shuffles some papers around, his signal that he wants to tell me something. Annoyed, I stare at him over the novel.

"You already know what I mean to discuss with you."

"Do I?"

Neil exhales in exasperation. "I take it, then," he begins carefully, searching for his favorite euphemisms, "that your _unfortunate nature_ has been a source of difficulty lately?" His hands steepled, as he leans towards me, all intense, unwanted concentration. 

That is really _not_ a path I would like to pursue. "No," I insist, averting my gaze. Outside, a deer roams in the fog, sniffling in the shorn grass, its legs thin and tawny. A lone figure against the white. I wonder how it has come to stray so far from the forest and towards the house. Surely it must know that there are filthy people nearby. Perhaps I can befriend it, feed it some _—_  

"You handed in your resignation," Neil states, with no room for dispute. "Did something _unfortunate_ happen?

His attempts to define what is acceptable and what is not strikes me as ludicrous. One man's symptoms of madness has been the staples of my everyday life at Delilah. Father lived the remainder of his life under the guidance of a ghost. Once, passing by his room in a daze of warmth and viscera, my mind whitened by the recent murder _—_ a mercy-killing, really, given that I removed one more filthy human being from the face of the earth _—_  I overheard him arguing with _his beloved_ Augusta. And not for the first time, I wondered if he was not, in fact, conversing with the devil. A soul for a soul, in true Faustian fashion. The thought chilled my skin. How strange that such a being frightened me, for there are a not-insignificant number of people in London who would swear that I am, truly, the devil himself. And perhaps they are correct. 

How would Neil react, to learn that both Father's sons have blood on their hands? Or does he know?

Undeterred by my sullen silence, Neil exhales and withdraws his intense focus, now deciding on a different tactic. "What is it, then? Are you unhappy here?"

 He has gone too far this time, to pretend to care about me. I smile in a show of suppressed anger, which never failed to unnerve Cassian. ("Oh, you better not be cross with me, Doctor.") Somehow he always knew when I was angry with him; he'd always reach in his coat _—_ always a dark one _—_ for a cigarette, grumbling that I needed a longer leash for my temper and didn't I make him work for his pittance? How his Irish mother would be cursing him from her pauper's coffin if she knew just what he had become. _And not one of your English curses either_ , he always amended. _A real strong Irish one to strip the flesh right off your bones._  He would inhale deeply, looking me over in a vaguely annoyed way.  _It'd send you straight to your grave,_ he'd add flippantly, signalling the beginning of his favorite topic _—_ my health, or lack thereof. To which, I always replied that I could easily find a better assistant, one without peasant superstitions. And he would exhale his cloud of cheap, adulterated smoke, raise an eyebrow, and ask me just what I thought I was doing with all my research on the dead.  _This whole damn place is full of superstitions come true,_ he'd mutter, grinding the cigarette stub into sparks and ash with his heel. _Now, what does the learned doctor want?_

At the memory of Cassian's annoyed face, I laugh a little _—_ and Neil looks more than slightly alarmed at my actions. In his brief startling, my happiness evaporates.  _Do you think I'm going to eviserate you?,_ I almost snap. _Like in a penny dreadful?_  And in the slow, steady way he surveys me, the way one watches an unpredictable creature, I have my answer. I do not know if I am more upset with him for treating me so, or with myself for justifying his fears. A dull pain starts in my head again. I wasn't always like this, but I won't be like that again. And there is something to be said for the way that being treated as a wild, irrational creature can make anyone start to feel like one. 

And for a moment, I feel trapped, suffocatingly trapped in this study with the leather-bound books and the heavy curtains drawn back for the meager English morning. Even the rain seems to be conspiring against me, to keep me here, as it taps on the window, against the shingles. No, I could leave _—_ I could leave all of them _—_

I'm not certain anymore. 

To mask my unease, I settle for some cruelty of my own. "You may as well admit," I say coldly, quietly, giving into the bitterness of self-pity, "that you don't know what to do with your cousin's _bastard son_." I cannot quite decide if it is worth the momentary shock on his face. Yes, that should be a suitable reminder that I can be cruel just as easily as he can; cruelty and hardness can be a convenient protection, if only a self-eroding one. Nothing is wasted on a cruel person, and perhaps that's for the best. 

Neil, however, is not about to humor me. "You don't know what to do with yourself," he replies, and for a moment, I am furious with him, for so easily guessing my troubles, and terrified that I am so transparent in my emotions that _even Neil_ can deduce them. I don't know how to explain to him that I am not certain as to what I should do with the unmarked life I have _—_ that even as I realize that I do not enjoy being a physician, I cannot relinquish it, because it's how I was shaped. It brings me no joy to save men from their fate, when God's creatures are subjected to the plow and the whip and the butcher's knife. All man's ill-gotten dominion. 

(But what else _—_ who else would I be?) 

 He takes my wounded speechlessness as confirmation. "I'm not your enemy," he continues, still firm, but a little softer. "No one here is."

 I cannot bear to look at him now. How dare he carry on as if nothing has happened between us. As if he did not conspire to be rid of me in the worst possible way. Under the table, my hands shake with anger and fear. 

"All I want is your happiness," he insists. "But you have to tell me what you want." He pauses. "If you even know what that might be." 

A familiar constriction returns to my chest.

 "Why did you let him pass the night in your bedroom? Again?" _In your bed_ goes unspoken between us. Oh, Neil has never been blind to that possibility; I'll wager the entire family has been obsessively observing Cain for the slightest deviance to confirm his inheritance, which he has, in turn, been giving them spitefully in abundance. "You'll ruin him, ruin his chances to make a good match. Cain's too headstrong to see clearly. He thinks notoriety is only another synonym for attention. I don't want him to find out in a few years' time that it is one thing to follow a man's antics in the gossip columns, and another entirely to marry into his family." Neil hesitates, tense from an almost-anxiety. "And no woman will share her husband with his brother."  

 A sharp pain starts in my chest. How dare he remind me that it is my presence that complicates matters, wrecks _his precious_ Cain's future. Even now, it seems that we cannot both exist _—_ one of us has to die for the other to live. And I, God help me,  _I want Cain_. I want him so badly that I can hardly stand it. I don't know if I want to _be_ him, or if I simply desire to be so close to him that matters of the flesh are not relevant. A sordid tangle of lust and newfound closeness. 

Neil inhales slowly, bracing himself. "One day, you'll find that your substitute for Alexis is only that. And then what will you do? Who will be your next Alexis? Your next savior?"  

The boundaries of the study blur, losing their shape. I bite my lip against the sudden, hot demand of tears. I won't let him see me cry. How easy it must be, for him to speak of saviors, when he has never needed one, never known the blinding, desperate rage of never being enough for anyone.   

 "People grow apart," he adds gently. "Cain will have an heir to raise."

 Yes, I know. I am painfully aware of how superfluous I am. Father made sure I held no delusions about my replaceability. After a particularly gruesome failure, he grabbed me by the upper arm, and dragged me into a corner. With his back to the garish gaslights, the only light on Father's face was his feverish anger in his eyes. Darkness masked his face, the thin Hargreaves nose and the narrow Hargreaves lips, and his shadow, in turn, fell across me, wrapping me in its shroud. (His existence negating mine). And I wondered, idly, if he would kill me then. He watched me for the slightest twitch of fear, waiting the way a spider will sometimes, anticipation tensing his limbs.  _You've been very confident, Jezabel,_ he breathed, savoring the name he gave me.  (To name is to own. It's not an accident that God's first act after creating Adam was to name him.) _Very confident, indeed. But, I fear, this overconfidence of yours, this pride of yours, will lead you astray.  And I do not have the time to indulge your fancies. **Get it right the first time.** Or ... _ He simply exhaled, pipe smoking clinging to his clothes, leaving my fate unspoken between us. His eyes too bright for the dark circles under his eyes. Augusta, or rather his delusion of her, must have been driving him again.  I know the price of failure is death, as are the wages of sin.After all, I've practiced on the body of my predecessor. _No one leaves Delilah._  

 (What Father forget, however, is that to name is to differentiate: in naming the animals, Adam became separate from them, from the creatures that shared his life and his mortality. But at the same time, Adam and the animals became inseparable, for they depended on each other for their being, their own definition. Father defined me as soiled and insubstantial, but to be a lord, one must have followers. A king without his subjects is indistinguishable from anyone else. Will Cain, then, still be Cain without an Abel? Or will he become someone else? And the thought that Cain can be separate and _whole_ without me both frightens and angers me in a way that I could not have foreseen, for my existence has always required his.) 

 At my silence, something akin to regret comes over Neil, as if he has realized that he has pushed too hard. "Get some rest," he adds, in a tone one could mistake for gentleness. "You look as though you're coming down with something."

His interest in my health angers me, that he should feign an interest in what has never bothered him before. But, then, again, I suppose it would have been easier for Neil and the rest of them if I had died in surgery or in the house in the forest that I have long since left. 

As I leave him, a wracking cough seizes me. And my blood runs cold at the recognition of that familiar pressure on my chest, the telltale sign of the accumulation of fluid. 

How much time did I think I had left?

* * *

_To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:_

_A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted—_

But what the nameless author of Ecclesiastes never mentions is how it is never _enough_ time, before we must return to the dust that begot the animals and Adam, sin and that old snake. I'll be dead soon enough, perhaps not tomorrow, but soon. I'll fade away, each infection stealing a little more of my strength, until my lungs are corroded from the scar tissue. A feeble mass of scarred tissue too stiff to be of use. 

That is, if I survive this one. 

(And that old voice reminds me that it is within my power to close this door. I know how easily life can be extinguished.)

I have spent so many years wanting to be dead, living in a maimed, hollow space that I believed to be akin to death. A skinless, red void of pain and disdain, blood and bones.

 I think of the dog, the nameless dog that I spent hours stitching back together. His dull leather collar, cracked a little already. The way he nestled against me, as if he could see past the sin and the hardness to find something in me.  He was the first one to mark my humanity _—_ the first one to show me that my hardness was only an illusion, and not even a well-crafted one at that.

I remember the spider in the corner of my laboratory at Delilah. A feeble dust mote, suspended in the air. A tightrope walker that crept out at night to keep me company. Once, it made the mistake of making itself known during the day, and one of the maids spotted it, shrieking as though it held a knife to her throat, and it required all of my willpower not to strike her silent. 

 I think of Snark, and _—_

 Is that that why I am reliving this? To find my place in the long line of the dead? 

Will I be cast into hell for all I have done, or will He take mercy on me? Father always reminded me that I was irrevocably stained for what I had done _—_ and have done _—_ but is anyone truly lost to God? Or will I be cast into a different hell _—_ the hell of nothingness? No thought, no feeling. No time. Just stopped for all of eternity _—_ a pause. Lost to a different sleep and a different silence, with nothing and no one to mark that I had _been_ , that I had lived, save a few lines on a gravestone and records that will quickly become meaningless. Or will I become a ghost, damned to witness my own erasure? To watch the world continue to move on, all the while being still and stagnant? Voiceless and aimless, just as I was in life, but with the cruel certainty that, at least, alive, I could have made a change. 

I don't want to die. Even in my death wish, there was only a wish for the pain and uncertainty to cease. Nothing ever wants to die. The urge to live is in the way the dying man scrabbles at the clean, deep line across his neck, as if that will help, or the way a half-crushed insect unflinchingly drags itself onward. (The poor, maimed beetle snapped under a little weight _—_ a mercy-killing that felt like murder. They always do.)

And it becomes harder to breathe. I brace myself with one hand against the steady permanence of the wall. I gasp _—_ and gasp; my hand flies to my chest _—_ as I force the air into the lungs _—_ which will not accept it. The room begins to fade at the edges of my sight. My hand slips—the room continues to spin _—_ and _—_ and I'm falling again _—_ falling and falling _—_ anticipating the impact that never comes.

* * *

>   _Cain_

It's hardly out of the ordinary to spot one of the footmen above stairs, quickly moving in search of Uncle Neil, or carrying out some other errand, and I almost give it no thought, until I spot that tumble of white hair, pale as glass, over his arm. With a quiet horror, I realize that he must be carrying Jezabel back to his room. My blood stills, the air thickens, and a thousand explanations race through my head, each halting and half formed: he fell off his horse; he fainted, because he hasn't come to terms with the fact that semi-starvation cannot solve anything, only worsen it; he poisoned himself because I couldn't _—_ didn't _—_ tell him that it was wrong of his mother to stay silent about such a thing. 

 Against the pillows, Jezabel seems oddly frail in a way I have seldom thought of him as. I knew about his childhood illnesses, but this feels different, somehow. His tie has been loosened, and along his exposed, pale neck runs the blue of a visible vein _—_ I forget its name, Riff has told me numerous times, but I could never remember _._ I watch it in grotesque curiosity at how closely it runs to the surface, to the skin, and wonder if Jezabal's bizarre fascinations are beginning to rub off on me. Pity, that. I suppose I'll start to worry when I find myself soliloquizing on the merits of a scalpel. 

 A soft intake of breath and the faint stirring tell me that he has regained consciousness, and sure enough, he opens his cold amethyst eyes, a haughty Sleeping Beauty. Although he regards me with his characteristically detached demeanor, there is still the sense that something is _wrong_ with him. His pupils are normal, indicating that he has not decided to poison himself abruptly, but his breath is labored and there's a faint flush in his face. A fever?

 What gives me pause, however, is the uncertainty on his face, as he stares at me, unable to place me. A chill settles on my skin. Who does he take me for?

"You must have fallen," I begin, matter-of-factly. "One of the footmen brought you upstairs."

He closes his eyes again, his hair strewn across the pillows. A sudden desire to touch a strand sparks within me. I half wonder if it will dissolve in my hand, like a memory.  So lost am I in the way the light catches in his hair, that I almost startle when he begins to speak in a slightly breathless, pained tone.

"I suppose you already called for a doctor." He coughs a little.

"Healthy people don't faint," I retort, slightly defensive and slightly annoyed at being predictable. 

"You're insufferable, sometimes." Before I can wonder about the way he adds a qualifier to his assessment of me, he stops halfway, one hand against his head, as pain blanches his face. His other hand tightens on the quilt, drawing it into a bundle. He draws in a long, shuddering breath, staring at the ceiling. "I don't need some half-trained doctor, with _his leeches and his bloodletting_ ," a faint sneer crosses his lips at this archaic understanding of medicine, "to tell me that my lungs are failing." 

 I frown. "Failing? Didn't Father _—_ didn't he fix that?"

A long pause falls between us, and I can easily surmise the answer. This mystery aliment has no cure _—_ it doesn't even seem have a name. 

Bitterness darkens Jezabel's face, as he twists the printed bellflowers of the blanket in pain. "Father used to tell me that I wouldn't live past thirty. That the transplant would eventually fail, and that death was only a matter of time." He glares at me, placing the blame unfairly on me. Or is it the blame of Father's meddling? Would Father have bothered with the surgery if he had not been useful? If I had not been born?

I had never given that a thought, but now it looms over me. "Father was wrong about a lot. What about a new transplant?"

He shakes his head slightly. "The operation itself is beyond the capabilities of today's doctors. It's a slow decline, as the fluid accumulates and the scar tissue forms." Fleetingly, a look of helplessness and terror crosses his face. "Who would choose such a death?"

Although his horror at such prospects upsets me, given his remarkable understanding of medicine, I try not to let it show. "Well, _before_ we decide to smother you, let's get a second opinion." I pause, wondering how best to get him to cooperate. "I wager you can't go the entire visit without complaining." 

A flash of annoyance, before he replies, in a childish, sullen tone. "Well, _I_   wager you're wrong." 

I seize my opportunity. "Then it's a bet. If I'm right, then you have to rest for a week."

"But what do I win if you're wrong," he asks, crossing his arms. "Which you most certainly are."

I frown, stumped. What do I have that he could possibly desire? (Besides my eyes and my organs and everything that I have heard far too much about for my well-being.)  "I don't know. What do you want?"

He contemplates my question for a few moments, staring thoughtfully at the window. I hope he doesn't want something  _ludicrous._ "I've grow rather fond of my organs," I add. "I don't think I can bear to part with them now. We're much too attached."

 He smiles at my nervousness, a faintly mischievous smile that I do _not_ like, and determines his reward.

I nearly flush.  _Well_. "Sometimes," I manage, trying to compose myself, "sometimes I think you and Mary are in league."

* * *

Pneumonia. 

Hardly the death sentence Jezabel seems to see it as, but not something to take lightly either. Apparently proving me wrong is one of Jezabel's favorite pastimes, for he is a beautifully docile patient, when he makes up his mind to be. He gives me a self-satisfied look, as the doctor concludes his exam, the only departure from his otherwise convincing performance. A little unsteady from the analgesic, he sinks back into the pillows, the picture of fragility and feigned meekness.  I, in turn, wipe away the blood away from the injection site in the inside of his arm, and begin to massage the area gently, in the hope that there will not be a sizable bruise in the morning. I wrinkle my nose at the stiff smell of the disinfecting alcohol, which still hangs in the air. So unlike the sweet, sharp allure of my poisons. 

The doctor lays out a relatively simple treatment plan, consisting of medicine, bed rest, and eating _properly—_ at this, Jezabel's eyes narrow slightly, and I remember the last time he railed about the sins of meat-eating at a family dinner, citing everything from Percy Shelley to the Book of Genesis; I have never seen Uncle Neil's eyebrows raised so high. Although my brother remains outwardly sweet, I can tell from the slight tension around his mouth that his patience ended a while ago, and so I conclude the visit, arranging for the fee and expressing my sincere thanks that he could make it on such short notice.  

When I return, I find the dog curled obstinately next to Jezabel, clearly vexed that it was not allowed to be present during the exam. I shrug my apologies. The rain has abated, for now, leaving a brooding sky behind. A perfect match for the brooding storm next to me. Jezabel runs his fingers through the dog's dark fur, desperately seeking reassurance; I perch on the bed beside him, my hand sliding over his free hand.

"You won," I state simply, hoping that this will end this quietness of his. 

 His hand merely continues its course, and then stops suddenly, resting on the dog's spine. At this pause, the dog gives him a questioning glance, something moving behind its dark eyes. Something that, the longer I examine it, starts to resemble concern. 

There is an unsettling blankness to Jezabel's face, and I wonder if it is upsetting to be touched by a stranger, even a well-meaning stranger, to be handled as if one were only a doll and not a sentient being. It must have reminded him of his past illnesses, and I suspect that that is truly what is present here. Not the pneumonia, but the nameless illness of his childhood. It must be agonizing to be trapped in a body that keeps failing, that is unstable, and in the end, so vulnerable.

 I consider the ointment that is supposed to be applied to his chest, to ease his coughing. "Should I, or do you want to...?"

Jezabel shrugs. 

 I undo the lid, take some of the ointment into my hand, warming it, and my face warming slightly at the prospect of touching my brother, albeit in the most strictly platonic manner. My hand edges towards the careless fold of the printed dress gown. The pale of my hand made luminescent against the gentle lavender and white cranes, before it slips under the fabric. The smoothness of the silk brushes against the top of my hand as I slowly apply the mixture to his heated skin. His heartbeat, already quick from the infection, increases, and he searches my face. Half hurt, half something unnameable.  Confirmation? Worry? I'm painfully aware that we are playing with fire, that one day the dream will end and we will have to face what we have wrought, but I do not take pleasure in his unhappiness. I am not Father. 

 For a moment, I think he will be angry with me for touching him, even with his permission, but then he softens, as my fingers rub circles into his skin. I wonder at how it must feel, to crave affection so badly that it hurts, only to snap back when it is freely given, because unconditional love simply cannot exist. Because people have ulterior motives, and animals do not. But in the safety of animals, there is always something lost, some confirmation that can only be given by a person. What a contradiction, to crave what does not, cannot _—_ must not _—_ exist. How strange that we are the perfect inverse of each other: I never knew love until I was twelve and Riff came into my life, while he didn't know it after Snark _—_ or perhaps, couldn't recognize it, because it was not Father's. 

I brush away some dampened hair from his forehead, as I have done for Mary, feeling his momentary recoil. Unsure how to bridge this divide between us, I pause, sensing his worry that he will spend the next month in bed, helpless and alone. That this will be only the beginning of a prolonged sickness that will kill him in the end. This uncertainty pains me, for I do not know what to say, and the idea of losing the only person who knows what it means to be Father's child frightens me. I do not want to be alone in this terrible knowledge. I suppose it's selfishness, then, that binds us, his selfishness of wanting to be cared for and mine of wanting to be understood.  

All of a sudden, I am painfully aware of how old and weary I feel, in my constant anticipation of death, but it is all that I have known. Against all my resolve, the hot tears come too easily, and he just watches me, unreadable. I start to shake from my overwhelming grief, and something moves across his face.  

"Come now," he starts, slightly uneasy. "What are you carrying on about? If I die, who will make you suffer in a future of endless despair, and if you die, whose organs will I covet?"

His perfectly deadpan statement stuns me for a moment, before I begin to laugh, curled up as I am. Morbid, indeed. Strange as it is, this must be his attempt to comfort me, and I'm not sure what it means that he has decided that I'm deserving of morbid comfort. (Or is it my organs?) How surreal. I suppose tomorrow, I'll awake on a vivisection table, with half my organs lovingly pickled and named. But love without danger has always been meaningless to me.

"I won't spoonfeed you, you know," I say, fumbling for some semblance of our old, antagonistic relationship, unsure of how I feel about being comforted. 

He rolls his eyes. " _What a pity._ "    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More homoerotic hurt/comfort. My fav trope. It might help to think of this as a collection of my favorite tropes, and nothing more. If you've read this far, you have my eternal love. Your feedback is always cherished.


	13. Sickness and Stubbornness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-overdue pneumonia chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bonus comfort chapter, added after i thought this fic was finished. Self-indulgent, like this entire fic. Pure fluff. I wanted a small, gentle chapter. 
> 
> As I was re-reading this fic, I realized that I had left out several scenes that make the narrative a little smoother. Namely this one, and 1-2 at the end. I may or may not rewrite the first 6 chapters; I am not very fond of them, and I think there's a better way of starting.
> 
> Plus, I wanted to try out AO3's chapter editing tools. They are fun.

> _Cain_

Slightly apprehensive, I take my duties as nurse-of-sorts to my brother.

It’s a simple, if boring task: keep him company in the few hours he spends awake and not in a laudanum-and exhaustion-fueled sleep. Of course, my brother has never been an easy patient in his life, and is not about to start now. He won’t tell me if he’s hungry or in pain; he only coughs blood and then folds up the handkerchief in a vain attempt to hide it from me.  

“You have pneumonia,” I remind him, drawing the curtains shut. Is that relief that softens his shoulders, the sudden relief from the brightness of the outside? “You could die. Uncle Neil wanted you to go to the hospital. ”

 He waves a disinterested hand, bundled against a chill he won’t admit to. He shivers a little, but stubbornly maintains his resolve. In turn, I rearrange the blankets, smoothing them out but carefully avoiding the outline of his limbs.  

Apparently, I’m meant to pry everything out of him.

Very well, then.

The absence of a cutting remark and his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the blanket tell me that the analgesic has worn off by now. He’s terribly pale, but flushed by the fever.

“You’re in pain,” I remark, flatly. 

The confirmation comes from his steady, stubborn silence.

I sigh, and uncap the bottle of opium pills left behind by the doctor. “How many?” Again, silence. “Or do you want to be a martyr today?” I cannot help myself from adding. Any sensible person would not be playing these games with me.

I look at his pained form, and I wonder if he’s silent because he’s used to being ignored by Father whenever he was ill or in pain. If he was vulnerable. With Father, it’s best not to say anything at all, not to take up too much space. I suppose it must be still difficult for him to tell anyone what he needs—if he can even figure what he needs in the first place.

 I try again, handing him the bottle. “Decide for yourself how much you need.” 

Surprise comes over him, before pain dulls it. I suppose it’s an issue of control again. He’s vulnerable, considerably weakened, and he resents having his fate in another’s hands. Well, anyone who’s not Father.

I turn my attention to the tea tray, giving him space to decide. As I prepare Jezabel’s cup, all I can think of is how better Riff would have been at this. He knew how to care for others, how to find the goodness in a world of pain. The tea swirls inside the cup— _“Lord Cain, your tea”_ rings in my head like a cruel joke.

Of course, he’s not here.

I blink away the hot clouds in my eyes.

Next the honey, which thickly dissolves. As I peek into the covered bowl, a pile of cut-out cookies look back—golden shortbread hearts, flowers, people, cats—and I know whose handiwork this was.  Even if she couldn’t come up here for fear of contagion, she still wanted to help in her own way. She must have sweet-talked the cook into letting her bake cookies, although the old woman has always had a soft spot for Mary.

I select a few, and fan them out on the saucer. He’s finished by now, having settled for a relatively low dose, but most importantly, he’s more agreeable and less defensive now, having “won” the first struggle. He sits back into the pillows, dividing his attention between idly watching me and petting the dog, who nudges his hand gently every time it begins to still. I press the cup and saucer into his hands. 

He takes a sip of the tea. “Ginger?”

I nod. “Riff—“ My voice catches on his name, to Jezabel’s slight interest, but I quickly collect myself. “He thought it was a good remedy for sickness.”

He says nothing in reply, only searches my face, before turning his attention to the sweets. I think I catch a faint smile at the cat one.

When we are both finished, I put aside the dishes and make sure he’s comfortable—easier said than done, of course. The red-brownish stain of drying blood deepens on the handkerchief as he coughs harder, and I am suddenly aware of the magnitude of the task before me.

“When should I send for the doctor?”  I ask.

He takes a moment to compose himself again. “When I stop breathing.”

I resist the urge to tell him that, if he stops breathing, he’ll be dead—or worse—before the doctor ever arrives. But that is the point, I guess. He means to do this by himself, out of sheer stubbornness.

“Very well.”

His fever still hasn’t broken yet, and I turn to re-wet the compress.  According to the current thought of the time, the air should be allowed to circulate, and the room left as cold as possible, but that seems foolish. To strain an already weakened body seems more like a mortician’s advice than a doctor’s. Instead, I've tried to keep the room as warm as possible, and lower the fever with a compress.  

“Don’t be a martyr,” he says, with the hoarseness that sickness causes. “It doesn’t suit you. You should be solving some convoluted mystery, not playing nurse.”

He’s genuinely upset by my actions, and I’m baffled at this, until I realize what his words are hiding—his belief that there’s no such thing as unconditional love. This again. He’s looking for my ulterior motive.  I can’t tell him that I’m afraid of death, afraid that if I will close my eyes, then he will die too, and it will be my fault. It’s foolish, illogical fear, but most fears are.

“Only you could find something suspicious in this,” I counter, brushing his hair away and reapplying the compress, noting his reflexive recoil as I do so.  Being with him is like handling a half-feral animal that cannot quite decide on your trustworthiness. “I just want you to hate me for a very long time.” A thought strikes me—I can use his own logic against him. “And besides, if only animals can give unconditional love, then what about Cassian?”

He narrows his eyes in annoyance, caught in his own logic, but settles back into the pillows.

There’s a strange pause between us. For a moment, I am unsure what else he could need, then I recognize the hesitancy. He wants to be comforted, to be touched gently, although if I ask him, he would vehemently deny it and then promptly order me to leave. It’s a basic need, to be touched, just not one I thought of him as having. At the same time, I would just prefer to keep my throat intact, and not accidently provoke something.

I perch on the bed, beside him. My hand hovers over his. “Can I?”

Innocent surprise flashes across his face. It’s endearing, this vulnerable side of his. Is this how Riff felt with me? Looking over the wall I had made around myself, to find the vulnerable parts of myself? Then, it disappears, as he warily surveys me, trying to discover an ulterior motive where there is none. This distrust, however, doesn’t last for long.

He nods.    

He tenses again, from the unexpected pressure from my hand on his, then begins to slowly relax. I rub small circles onto the back of his hand, tracing over the tendons, relishing the contact, the small sign of humanity. Slowly, he begins to succumb to the drowsiness of opium, and sinks back, his body loosened by the absence of pain. His skin is unnaturally hot, despite the chill he must sense in his limbs. How strange. When his eyes have closed and his breathing has slowed, aside from an occasional sleep-cough, I withdraw my hand and smooth the blankets.

The dog, curiously enough, gives me a look of shared sympathy.

“He’s quite the handful, isn’t he?” I whisper back.

* * *

 The day climbs across the sky, slowly, unblinkingly. Jezabel lies quietly, asleep I suppose, curled into the blankets, with one hand resting on the dog’s back. His breathing is rougher than I would like, but such things can’t be helped. Every so often, he shudders from the chill inside his body, a pathetic little tremor, and I check that he’s still covered. Sometimes he peers from under the blankets to make sure that it is only me, and then, satisfied, goes back to sleep. 

 The dog, however, surely must need some fresh air, and so I summon a footman to let it run free on the lawn. Although the dog goes quietly with the footman, it casts a backwards glance at the bed that pains me deeply.

”It’s alright,” I say. “It’s just a small break.”  

 It seems to sigh, exhausted with the both of us; then it is only Jezabel and me, again, alone. Apart from the rest of the world. Jezabel stirs a little but does not open his eyes. Instead, his hand traces the path to the little nest where the dog had been sleeping, digging his fingers into the quickly  dissipating warmth. 

I cover his hand with mine, and he opens his eyes in shock, his lips parted as he stares up at me, caught. His skin white-grey from the stress of an illness that his body is ill-equipped to handle. Then he bites his lip, sullen now that I’ve glimpsed that need to be comforted again, withdrawing his hand and curling into himself. 

Trite words come to my lips, something about trust and loneliness and the futility of it all, but I don’t say them. 

The rise and fall of his chest is jagged, the pain must be worsening. I try not to think on how I am not prepared to deal with any of this, how this is just another role I’ve been thrust into. I wonder if Father was right about my being soiled, about how I will only taint those around me, like a poison. And then, lavender spills across my memory, an unbound  scent fills the room, though there are no flowers to be found.

How strange.

Then a knock at the door announces the dog’s return, and when I open the door to let it in, instead of the footman, the one who stands before me is Oscar. 

The dog brushes past me, unaffected. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, slightly perturbed. “This is a sickroom, not a bar.”

Sheepishly he hands me a book. _The Picture of Dorian Grey_. I can only hope that this is not a coded message; I shall have to see if he dons a green carnation next. “For Jezabel,” he explains, in that foolish way of his. “Cassian thought he might want to read it.” 

“The dog?” I reply, lowering my voice, although I seem to have caught its attention; it stops from its task of sprawling out on the bed and gives me a long, appraising look. “The dog told you to get a book? Christ, don’t tell Uncle Neil. He’ll think you’ve gone mad—“ _Too_  wisely fades away on my lips. 

Oscar shakes his head, ever the bumbling fool. “Ah! Of course not! It’s just—you see... He just sat there in the library and wouldn’t move. Right in front of the shelf with all the new novels.”

“It just sat there,” I repeat, dumbfounded. 

“Well...” Oscar scratches his neck nervously. “He _looked_ like he wanted a book.” 

I give him one of Jezabel’s best stares. 

“And it wasn’t just any old book, either! He didn’t leave until I picked the right one. It’s like he understood what I was saying to him.” 

Now it’s Jezabel’s turn to stare, bleary-eyed at Oscar, evidently weighing the obnoxiousness of Oscar’s presence with a potential ally as to the dog’s personhood. His hand absentmindedly plays with the dog’s flappy ears as the dog melts across the bed, taking up enough space to rival a person.

”And besides,” Oscar adds, a silly, self-serving grin across his face, “I had to check on my dear brother-in-law.” Jezabel narrows his eyes at this transparent flattery, and Oscar quickly corrects himself. “Both of them.”

”This is a sickroom,” I repeat, taking the novel. “We can’t have you falling ill too.”

”But should I...” Oscar begins slyly, “you’d be there to see me well again, wouldn’t you?”

Christ. That was his ulterior motive. I grimace at the thought of having Oscar for a patient. “No,” I say flatly. “In case you haven't heard today, Jezabel is the only doctor here. We’d send you to hospital.” 

Disappointment shows on his face. “But-but-“ 

“Don’t be unreasonable.” I move to shut the door, but Oscar doesn’t relent. 

“Let me read at least, then. Let you have a break and all.” 

Is this, is this his way of showing his love for me? To ease my burden? It’s strangely earnest, even if I do want to strangle him sometimes. 

I inhale sharply. “Fine.” And as I let him pass, I quickly add, “Only for Mary’s sake.” 

He grins. “For Mary.” Fully knowing that’s the only reason he gets away with anything around here—including staying rent-free with full accommodations here. 

Oscar takes my chair, and I perch on the bed beside Jezabel, as I explain the situation. He sighs, before curling under the blankets with a half audible remark on fools and fate, and after Oscar has read a few passages to his satisfaction and been promptly teased for his overwrought rendition, we usher him out, claiming the dread spread of pneumonia when all any of us want is some sensible quiet. As the door closes behind him, I’m reminded of just how much my back aches from sitting... perhaps I could—would it be right of me to simply lie beside him? 

“Can I?” I ask, bending down so that only he can hear my question. My eyes sweep over the space Cassian has mercifully left, to fill in the gaps of my words. 

He frowns, processing my words, and then shrugs. 

I make myself comfortable beside him, not an easy task considering that the dog refuses to budge, but finally it all gives way and I find myself close to his heated skin, curling one hand around his chest. Worry and pain cross Jezabel’s face at this, and I begin to withdraw my hand, fearing the worst, when his mood changes and he closes his eyes again. 

And then his hand finds mine, lying as lifeless as paper on top of my skin. He shifts against me, his shoulders tense from trying to hold back the newfound pain in his body. But most surprisingly, he circles the top of my hand lazily with his fingertips in a strange imitation of me.

And we lie there together, too warm, too lost, a blend of guilt and pain and confusion, and perhaps shot through it all, the pale stirrings of tenderness.

* * *

I open my eyes to a sound I do not want to hear. A low, pained rattling inside his chest. I call his name to ascertain if he’s still conscious. 

No reply.

My heart stills. 

I try again. His breath comes in quick, sharp, pained groans, and I can’t quite understand what has changed until I realize that there must be something hideously wrong with his lungs. 

And for a moment, fear grips me, and I am clutching at that little pile of dust, there on my knees as the _no, no, no_ of it all chokes me. And then I force myself to return to the present, where time is falling and I do not have the luxury of waiting. 

I ring up the doctor, trying to keep my behavior inconspicuous, even though I can hardly form words in my heightened state. 

It’s not an unknown complication, he tells me, unruffled. He sets on his way, and I set back to Jezabel’s room, half praying he’s still unconscious so the doctor can check his state with the least possible interference. The last thing I want is a clash between the two of them. 

Unfortunately, I do not get what I want. Jezabel regards me unsteadily, uneasy about my absence. His breathing has not improved. 

“There’s something wrong with your lungs,” I explain, as if he does not already know this, as if he cannot feel it. “I’ve sent for the doctor.” 

At this, Jezabel stares at the wall, biting his lower lip in a sullen protest. 

“It has to be looked at,” I continue, but it’s not my body that will have to be laid bare in front of the doctor. 

Jezabel shakes his head, and my heart drops. I don’t know how to bargain with him, what could possibly move him to cooperate this time. 

I crouch down at his bedside, and this movement draws his attention. “Look, I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. I’ll send the doctor away if you don’t want him here.” I wait for him process my words in his weakened state. 

He watches me, almost curious now. 

“But if you do want it, then tell me what I—“ I pause, unsure. “Just tell me what I can do to make it easier to bear.” 

He thinks a little to himself, deciding something. And then the dog curls up to him, rubbing against the back of his arm. 

“Cassian stays,” he says finally, in a low, exhausted tone.

“Ok,” I agree, relieved. “Do you want something for the pain?” 

And together we decide on how to navigate the doctor’s visit. 

The doctor himself comes in a little while later, unconcerned, and after a little chat, immediately sets to examining Jezabel.

“Lie back,” he says. One hand gently pushes backwards at Jezabel’s shoulder, and after an annoyed look that the doctor misses as he rummages for his stethoscope in his pocket, Jezabel complies. 

The doctor moves to slightly pull apart the folds of the dressing gown, and deftly slides the small metal part—the resonator, I think I’ve heard Jezabel call it—along Jezabel’s chest. 

There’s a rising tension as the doctor checks several locations, assessing the state of his lungs, and every time he slides it to another location, a little grimace of discomfort comes over Jezabel. The doctor steadily tugs the gown apart throughout this process, and then, after another period of listening intently, seamlessly folds up the stethoscope and tucks it back into his coat pocket. 

“It’s a pleural effusion,” he says, already searching for something else in his black bag.

Jezabel briefly looks self-satisfied, probably congratulating himself for having diagnosed it before the doctor even came.

“I’ll perform a drainage of the chest cavity, and that should clear it right up.” He starts assembling a syringe. “You will want to stay very still during this,” he says to Jezabel. 

Worry comes over Jezabel, no doubt anticipating the prospect of having a syringe plunged into his chest shortly. 

The doctor’s fingers search around his now fully bared rib cage for the best location, and Jezabel’s breathing quickens. The dog must notice, because it puts its head on his shoulder, nuzzling against him. 

He watches the dog, something akin to relief and sadness on his face, distracted from the quick application of iodine that the doctor gives the chosen area of his chest. And then he gasps as the needle slides in. 

He grimaces from the pain of it all, unconsciously pressing himself into the bed as if to get away from the needle. 

The syringe starts to fill with a ghastly liquid, and we watch it, transfixed in different ways. 

Then I slide my hand under the blanket to find his. He loosens his grip on the sheets to accept mine, and he searches my face for something, some confirmation. 

The syringe fills and fills, like a tick. And then a pause, as the doctor stops pulling the plunger out. The needle slides out, just as easily as it went in, and the doctor presses a bit of cotton against the wound. 

Jezabel’s grip slackens, and after a quick press of reassurance against his fingers, I take up the task of keeping the cotton to his chest, checking on the puncture as it starts to clot. 

Jezabel closes his eyes, pushed closer to exhaustion, and all I can think is that it’s over, the ordeal is over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I really do mean it. I'm still pleasantly surprised that anyone reads anything I write, to be honest.


	14. A Guest

> _Cain_

The fever has broken, but the compilations have yet to clear. I've continued to keep him company, if only because  I am almost certain that if I left him alone for too long, I would return to find him raving about the people in the wallpaper or other assorted madness. He has a brilliant mind that tends to find something in nothing if left unoccupied. And to his credit, he has reformed himself into an almost reasonable patient, despite complaining to me about the doctor's ineptitude _—_ a condition that, I found, extends to every physician but himself. Mostly though, he's been asleep from the analgesic, an arm curled around the dog and his hair in a loose braid. And in those moments, he looks as gentle as a lamb.

Deceptively so, of course. 

But that's not what worries me. Now there is a surrender to this childhood disease, this phantom he sees in his current illness. Now that his fever has broken, he should be moving about again, taking short walks and so forth. Instead, there is only a disinterest: he only stares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. Part of me wonders if this is from his near-constant sleeping and the disconnect from physical reality that such an act can bring about, and another part wonders if he has decided to will himself to die out of a desire to avoid his nightmarish vision of the future.

By the window, I only resume my perusal of a treatise on poisons of the tropics _—_ hardly anything of note. From my place, I have a view into the garden: there, Mary and Oscar are having a game of cricket, albeit one-sided, as Oscar's fondness for her turns him into a bad player. At a particularly bad swing, Mary claps her hands to her mouth, unable to contain her laughter. The sun brightens her hair, and a lightness rises in my heart at the sight of her happiness. 

"Want me to open the window?" I offer, already searching for the jar of birdseed to spread on the windowsill.

I remember the first time he showed me how he fed the birds. The room gave way to a whirlwind of chirps and feathers and _life_ , as they circled him, eating freely from his hand. In his only act of consideration to this date, he gave me a palmful of birdseed, against my protests that I really did not care to feed his entourage of opportunists. It, however, was delightful to see the wrens and sparrows and larks bob their beaks and fly away with their chosen seeds, and by the time the birds had had their fill, a breathless joy had come over me, although I would never admit it to him. Then we took up the soiled newspapers from the floor for the compost, because, as Jezabel explained to me, God's creatures might have no shame, but Uncle Neil would certainly not approve of nature's workings.  I wondered if he and Cassian ever spent the evening cleaning after the birds he allowed into his study. If that was ever a quiet respite from the chaos of Delilah. Although, in hindsight, it would most certainly have been _Cassian_  who did the cleaning and _not_  my brother.  

This time, however, Jezabel only shakes his head numbly. "There's no point," he says finally, with an effort, not even averting his gaze. Limp as a doll. 

 I set the jar down. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

Jezabel gives me a long, sullen look in response.  "You're not the one at the end of your life."

"You're the only one who believes that," I counter. "And if you want to make yourself unhappy, no one can stop you. But that's a choice. And _—_ "

A dull crack against the window interrupts me, its source falling into the garden. I frown, slightly confused and perturbed: surely Mary knows better than to throw stones against windows when she wants attention. Was it Oscar, then? Were they careless with their game of cricket? I unlatch the window, preparing to scold someone, only to see Mary preoccupied with something below the window. She glances up at me, her hat askew and a question barely visible on her mouth, and then taking note of my presence, takes up what is, no doubt, the offending cricket ball, and disappears into the house.

Bemused but not alarmed at her behavior, I return to Jezabel, who is slightly more alert now, and I detect the beginnings of annoyance in him.

"It wasn't anything," I say, returning to the treatise. 

He coughs again. "It never is with you." With that, the fight leaves him, and he resumes dully staring at the wallpaper, that lost look returning to him. Without hatred, the only thing left to face is the pain that birthed it.  I suppose it must be awful to be aimless, to not know where one should be and should be doing. To lack a purpose after having one, albeit a horrid, selfish one, for so long. 

Footfalls outside the door and a timid knock announces that Mary, for whatever reason, has made her way upstairs. A smudge of dirt soils her worried face, and her dress has become filthy. Eyes wide in alarm and concern, she shows me what must have hit the window. Oh. Certainly not a cricket ball, then. "You have to do something," she whispers to me, to avoid drawing Jezabel's attention. 

"There's nothing to be done." I take the damp mass from her, examining it. "You shouldn't have brought it here."

"But _—_ " Her eyes start to shine with tears, and I realize that, despite every hardship she has experienced, Mary is still a child, and most importantly, has the heart of one. To her, her big brother is the one who sets things to right, capable of solving any problem. "You have to _—_ there must be _—_ "

I consider taking her burden from her with a lie. As much as it pains me to be untruthful with her, the alternative is far worse, and I should spare her the ills of life to whatever extent I still can. I owe her that, at least. My heart sinks, and while I attempt to finalize the story I will tell her tomorrow, movement from the corner of the room catches my eye. Aided by sheer spite and sullenness from  no longer being the center of attention, Jezabel crawls out of bed, still unhealthily pale. Arms crossed, he peers over my shoulder, a decidedly annoyed set to his face that softens with an almost inaudible inhale at the gasping bird in my hands.   

* * *

> _Jezabel_

It's a wren. A poor little thing, heaving in the shock of being handled by people and, no doubt, pain. Guilt burns at me when I realize that it must have been accustomed to the opened window, and I stare at its broken body with the horrid realization that _I_ caused this. I hurt an innocent. I want to scream and rage at this sin, to make something match my boundless pain and broken insides, but the nausea from moving paralyzes me.

"Can't you do something?" Mary pleads, and it takes a moment before I register the fact that she is addressing _me_.  How strange. I suppose her _beloved big brother_ couldn't help, and the bastard brother was the next best thing. How typical of everyone around here. Despite my bitterness, however, something starts to stir within me, a possibility I had never considered. The wren's broken body no longer becomes an indicator of my depraved, stained state, but a puzzle to be solved _—_ and a life to be spared.  

 "Mary," Cain begins, with more than a hint of reproach and weariness in his tone. "Jezabel needs his rest. He's very sic _—_ "

"Nonsense," I interrupt, my mind reeling with possibility. "Her wing is broken. " I take the gasping bird from Cain, making a cradle out of my hands so that the innocent won't _—_ can't _—_ fall.  "It can heal." For some reason, that notion thrills and pains me in all its possibility. It can heal. 

Shushing the bird, as one might with a child, I gently extend its wing, feeling for the fracture. There.  A slight swelling around the ulna marks the fracture. A simple bandage should suffice to hold the bones in place, while she heals. Birds heal so quickly, that recovery shouldn't take more than two weeks. 

"Jezabel," Cain begins, half worried, half demanding, and I give him a level stare in response.  

 "I am going to fix this  wing," I say, in my low, deadly tone. "And there's naught you can say to stop me." 

"You think I can stop _you_  from doing what you want?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "You wouldn't listen anyway." 

 _You can't make me,_  I almost say, but it seems that further intimidation is not needed. And in my slight victory, my body chooses that moment to remind me of its current weakness, and I tremble just enough for Cain to notice. Concern crosses his face, and then it softens in what I could almost mistake for brotherly compassion. It, of course, is not. Such things do not exist.

"You're so stubborn," he says, half exasperated, as if he is begrudgingly reconsidering his opinion of me. 

 "It runs in the family," I retort, trying to ignore my trembling. 

 Cain exhales. "Sit down, before you collapse." 

Another coughing fit seizes me, and chubby fingers lightly tug on my arm, guiding me back to the bed I detest for the way it reminds me of the death I will have. Nausea returns, my throat tightening. Large blue eyes watch me with all the quiet solemnness of childhood, and for a moment, I _see_ myself in her eyes: I'm alien and incomprehensible to her, as all adults are to children, but more than that, I am the too-thin brother who is dying before her, one who cannot keep from constantly falling apart, the one half in love with the night. Fragile and angry. 

"Tell me what to do," Mary says, simply. 

"You can't set her bone," I manage, as my chest constricts with pain. 

She gives this some consideration. "True. But you can." A pause. "And I can help you."

I don't want to let go of this bird because I am afraid of what will befall her, should I give her up _—_ should I trust in people. Again. A life for a life is poor recompense for the immense, skinless pain of betrayal. But I'm still to weak to do everything on my own. True, I could set the bone, but I cannot see to the twice-hourly feeding the wren will need.

"Please?" Mary whines, in the high-pitched tone of a child accustomed to getting her own way. "I do so want to help."

Cain gives me a wry smile. "She won't stop until you agree."

At this, Mary fervently nods. "I won't."

I  nearly groan at the prospect of having _two_ uneducated helpers, but the weight of the gasping bird in my hand reminds me that such matters are of little import. "Why don't you bring me my bag?" I offer, pointing to my desk. "It has some gauze and material to repair her wing."

Her eyes light up at the chance of being included, and she scampers off, beaming. She lugs the black bag over, plopping it beside me, and then sits near me in a flutter of petticoats. She cups her chin with her hands, leaning forward in rapt attention.  

 "Now," I begin, "first, we need to make sure the fracture heals." As I explain the basics of setting a broken bone, she listens eagerly, her eyes bright. And I am not sure what to make of it all, let alone the strangeness of being listened to.  "And we'll need an aquarium to keep her in." I look at Cain expectantly. "Like the one in the drawing room."

"You're not serious," Cain replies, arms crossed. "Where will the fish go?"

"Outside, where they belong," I say, not dissuaded in the slightest. "Animals are not entertainment."  

"Big Brother," Mary begins sweetly, her hands clasped in girlish supplication, but Cain cuts her off. 

"That might work on Oscar, but not me."

A spell of mischievousness strikes me. " _Little_ Brother," I begin, and at my echo of Mary's words, Cain opens his mouth in shock, while Mary stares wide-eyed at me, baffled to hear me borrow her words.  _Good_. I hope they haven't grown too comfortable with their idea of me. I can't have them thinking me predictable. " _Little Brother_ , " I repeat, carefully emphasizing the birth and hierarchical order here, "there is a bird _dying_ here. _Would you kindly_ get the aquarium from downstairs, so that she does _not_ further injure herself?"

He shakes his head in disbelief, fumbling for a suitable retort. "You'll be the one telling Uncle Neil why the goldfish live in the pond now."

"Gladly," I reply. "They'd have died in the aquarium anyhow." Something compels me to add, "Better free than caged."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," Cain says, with a self-assured grin on his face, his hand on the door, and I redden a little at the realization that he is alluding to my belief that I would never escape Father's cage. "But you seem to be saying strange things today. I suppose I should leave before you confess your fondness for me."

"I certainly am not _—_ " But the door closes before I can reassure him that I do _not_ care for him in the slightest, and I glare at the ceiling in annoyance, before returning to my task. As I unfurl the bandage to measure the length needed, Mary has burst into giggles over the entire affair. 

"It's so strange to think of him as a little brother," she confesses, when her laughter has subsided. "But he is, isn't he?" She frowns, swinging her legs in thought. "I suppose that makes you my brother too. But what do I call you? I already have a big brother."

I shrug, uncomfortable. "I have a name." With the bird carefully cupped in one hand, I wind the bandage over her wing. It crosses over the center of the wing, and I tie it off, making sure that the bandage is not too tight. 

"Big Brother Jezabel?" she tries, hesitantly. 

I shake my head, grimacing at the prospect of being someone's "big brother," let alone being referred to as such.  

"Jezabel?" she says, uncertainty hushing her voice. Still a source of fear for her, as it will probably be until her death-day, but there is something else unfurling inside it, the thin, rangy green of hope. And there is something to be said for the way she wills herself to stay in my presence, fully knowing the violence I am capable of. 

I nod. "See how the wing lines up with the healthy one? You don't want a wing that is misaligned." I show her the three points where the wings should align, lightly tracing the three invisible lines of reference across the bird's body. "At the top, middle, and bottom of the wing." 

"The top, middle, and bottom of the wing," she repeats, determined to remember, and I wonder if this is what freedom looks like.

* * *

>   _Neil_

"There's a bird in the house."

Still dusty and disheveled from travel, I stare at Mary; nearby, my new manservant busies himself with folding my overcoat. "Where?" I reply, handing off my hat to be dusted. 

She smiles mischievously, before dragging me by the hand up to Jezabel's room. I make my way there slowly, still uneasy with walking. Inside, I notice that a strange set-up has been created: a single light bulb hangs above a glass aquarium with the lid taken off _—_ one that suspiciously resembles the one used to be in the reception room. I suppose Jezabel managed not only to persuade Cain to free the goldfish that used to live in there, but also to partake in his plans. Well, as long as this animal liberation doesn't extend any further, I suppose I won't press the matter. As for the rest of the set-up, there's a washcloth lining the aquarium floor, and on it, lies a handful of dried leaves and a bowl of water. The bird, infamous as it is now, is curled up in a corner, breathing heavily as if it too has pneumonia. A single eye opens slightly, darting around, before closing again.   

Instead of lying quietly in bed, Jezabel is sitting beside the newly minted bird hospital, watching his patient, and Mary plops down beside him, with the air of a co-conspirator. Jezabel, in turn, quietly regards me, taking note of my return. Although no longer flushed with fever, he retains that insubstantial, pale look, periodically trembling from either a sudden cold spell or weakness. Wisps of hair frame his face, having gotten loose from the braid draped over one of his shoulders. This one appears slightly more complex than his usual braids _—_ Mary's work, perhaps?

"What's all this?" I begin, leaning on my cane for support and to relieve the ache in my lower back. 

"Tell him! Tell him!" Mary urges Jezabel, childishly. Before giving him a chance to, however, she turns to me, a huge smile on her face. "It was me!" she announces proudly. "I found the bird. It flew into the window, so I brought it here. Look!" A chubby finger points to the huddled bird, and I peer a little closer: one of its wings is wrapped tightly in gauze. As she becomes more excited, her cockney begins to color her speech. "Her wing got broke _—_ got broken _—_ and Jezabel and I fixed it!"

I blink in shock to hear her refer to Jezabel by name, and not the oblique way she usually does. "You helped?" I give Jezabel a questioning glance, wondering why he decided to let Mary assist him with such a delicate procedure.

"Yes, she made sure the bedding was suitable," he confirms quietly. 

"I got the leaves and everything!" 

Cain smiles at her infectious joy.  "You're becoming quite the disciple. When are you going to start parading around in a white coat," here, he catch Jezabel's gaze, "and telling others you know best because you had years of medical training?"

 Jezabl scowls, but before he can find a cutting remark, his face whitens with pain, and at this, concern replaces self-satisfaction on Cain's face; he puts a hand on Jezabel's back, earning him a strange look from his brother. The moment goes entirely unnoticed by Mary, who is explaining to me, with all the enthusiasm of youth, how to set a bone. I suppose Jezabel must have shown her how. 

I take this as my cue to usher Mary out of the room, as Jezabel still needs to rest. When she has left, I ease into a chair, my old injury paining me too much. "We have a guest, it seems."

Jezabel shrugs. "Someone has to feed her twice an hour."

"Twice an hour?" I survey the huddled bird. 

 "For two weeks," Jezabel insists. "Until her bone heals." 

"And then, it can leave?" 

For a moment, a certain sadness returns to him, and he nods, already anticipating his loss. "Yes."

"I'll see that one of the servants manage it," I reply. 

For some reason, alarm comes over Jezabel. "I can take care of it," he says a little too hurriedly. "It's not a bother."

 "You need your rest," I insist. "There's no point in making yourself sicker over an animal."

 Before Jezabel can reply, Cain rejoins the conversation. "You heard Uncle Neil. Now, if you don't start on that," Cain says, gesturing to the dinner tray, "I will spoon-feed you." And at Jezabel's tight-lipped, sullen gaze, Cain decides to prove his point; he shuffles some roasted vegetables onto the fork and begin moving it in his direction, bobbing it around in the manner of a nurse feeding a young child. In an exasperated huff, Jezabel takes the fork and tray from him, and the dog snorts, eyeing Cain and then Jezabel as if deeply amused.

"It certainly does _not_ serve me right," Jezabel says to the dog, flustered enough that he has colored a little.       

Cain cannot keep from smirking, and as Jezabel picks at his dinner, Cain launches into an anecdote concerning a trip to London, although I recognize it as the subject of a heated letter from Lenora's sister. It's not a recent one, given that Riffael is alive during it, and while I listen to it, I muse a little on the gentle expression Jezabel had when he was caring for the bird, and how different it is from his usual detached one. In that moment, he seemed _alive_ , and there was a tenderness to him that moved me.

"There's a veterinary school in London," I begin, when Cain's anecdote has ended. "The Royal Veterinary School, I believe. I doubt it would be too difficult." 

Jezabel's pale eyes go wide at the possibility that I'll wager he has never considered, and then he shakes his head. "Certainly not."

"Why not? Imagine all the people you could lord over," Cain replies. "Animals and people? They'd have to erect a shrine to your ego." He moves his hands to illustrate a mock-description. "Doctor Disraeli, healer of animals and people. Spent years in medical school and knows better than all of us."

 "As opposed to what?" Jezabel counters. "Cain Hargreaves, darling of the gossip columns and bane of Scotland Yard? Burned down the London residence and pretends to be the paragon of moderation?"

"Settle down," I scold. "The school might be worth pursuing."

"No one wants a horse doctor in the family," Jezabel says abruptly, if not a little sullenly.

"No one wanted Oscar in the family, and there he is," Cain points out. "I don't care what the family thinks."

"It's a pity," I say lightly. "Anyhow, I mention the school only as a suggestion. It, of course, depends on your recovery." 

Jezabel's face falls at this, and for a moment, I wonder if he is about to cry or rage. The dog whines softly to divert his attention. 

"Come now," Cain says. "You'll be better in a month, surely. Spite is a wonderful thing."

At this, Jezabel rolls his eyes in exasperation, but he seems less worried, and I muse on the close bond of Alexis's sons, wondering if that will be enough to sustain them after I am gone.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like bonding scenes. You all probably have a pretty good idea what I like to see in a fic by now: a lot of pain, a lot of angst, and a lot of comfort/bonding to balance it out. And the obligatory Cain-Jezabel conflict, because it gives me life. I suppose that I should probably rename this fic "Count Cain: The Secret Garden, Part 2," for all the massive debt this fanfic owes that book.
> 
> This was a tricky chapter to write, until I realized that it was actually a sibling bonding chapter, and not what I was trying to force it to be. The chapter after this one is another of my favorites. We're nearing the end. 
> 
> And as always, my eternal gratitude to my amazing, sweet readers.


	15. In the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was one incredibly long chapter, but I can't read more than ~6k words without needing a breather/chapter break, and I'm assuming you all have my awful attention span.
> 
> Also, this gets intense, so please read the second half carefully if you were not aware of some of the more grotesque and inhumane practices of the late Victorian/early Edwardian era.

> _Jezabel_

"I'm _bored_ ," Mary complains, slouching on the chair, her neglected embroidery beside her. She crosses her arms, kicking her feet in frustration. "I don't even _want_ to be a great lady."

"It's your inheritance," Kathrine replies, never glancing up from her own, multi-yard project of swallows flutters amidst an impossible stretch of flowers. "And a lady of this family waits to receive callers every day. It's high time you began to practice."

"Who practices waiting?" Mary says. "I'm very good at waiting already. I wait all the time." 

 I glance up from my newest letter to the editor of the _Times,_ paused in thought;Cain catches my gaze with a smirk. "Have I ever told you," he starts, "about Jezabel's lady friend?"

"He's _got a lady friend_ ," Mary says, half furious, half intrigued, sliding back into her cockney. She eyes me suspiciously. "Since when?"   

Kathrine, however, merely selects another color of embroidery thread from the pile beside her. "Don't be ridiculous, Cain," she says, beginning to thread it through the needle. "We all know your brother hasn't set eyes on a wo—"

"Eveline?" I interrupt with a feigned nonchalance, naming his creation and deciding not to linger on the way she has decided to distance herself from me.   _Your brother_ , indeed. Yet another who doesn't want me around. At my response, she only raises her eyebrows in faint disbelief. 

"Yes, that's the one," Cain replies, leaning forward and taking no note of his aunt. "Didn't she say she might stop by?"

 "She might," I say conspiratorially, as Mary claps her hands to her mouth in excitement, unconsciously swinging her feet. 

"Then I should see if we have any visitors," Cain replies, setting down his novel. "It's only proper."

Kathrine shakes her head, as he turns to leave. "If only you cared for propriety." Perhaps it is fortunate that she misses his smirk of mild amusement, as he closes the door softly behind him. She has her hands full if she means to reform him.

Mary's gaze, however, keeps returning to me, despite her attempts to resume her embroidery. Half a dove stares back at me, thread trailing absentmindedly from its unfinished wing. "Have you _really_ got a lady friend?" she finally asks.

"Don't humor Cain," Kathrine answers her. "He's been allowed to get away with far too much. Your Uncle Neil is too soft on him." She meets my gaze: _"and you as well"_  goes unspoken between us.

The first night she showed up, to become Mary's substitute governess until Neil could locate a woman that has not encountered the Hargreaves household, she told him that he was doing wrong by not confining me to my bed until the complications cleared. And that by _indulging_ me, he was sending me to an early grave. _It's not healthy, Neil_ , she had said, _to let him follow his whims.  Today, it's no meat, and tomorrow? Tomorrow, he'll start talking about animal rights. The week after that, he'll have broken into the London zoo to let loose all the animals. He'll give Mary ideas, and then you can't put the cat back in the bag. Surely you don't want a libertine niece? Aren't Alexis's sons bad enough?_ Although a brief wave of pride came over me at finally being acknowledged as Father's blood, it was mixed with a sense of anger that she should allow herself to run the household, despite being an outsider. She's only the sister of Cain's stepmother, after all. Father's wife. 

As I attempt to voice a suitably sharp remark, another coughing fit seizes me, and pain starts again in my chest. Again. It doesn't matter how much I rest; the pain always returns, and blood lines the inside of the handkerchief I press to my mouth. At this, Mary's eyes go wide in concern.  

Kathrine glances up from her work, and then, satisfied that I haven't coughed blood all over the carpet, returns to the outline of a marigold. "You're still doing poorly," she says, with the air of one who knows best. "I suppose you still don't see the value in _proper_  nutrition."

I am beginning to detest  _proper_ now. What a nasty little box of a word. "Cod liver oil isn't necessary," I say, with all my carefully feigned, dangerous sweetness reserved for the most obstinate of patients, as I resume the argument that I have had with her every morning since she arrived. "Certainly not for me, and certainly not for the cod. It's pure folly to think that consuming another being will bring health."

Fortunately, the arrival of the butler renders her silent; she'd hate for an outsider to hear her in an argument. Appearances must be kept up, after all. She carefully transforms her frown in to the warm smile of a gracious hostess. 

"Ms. Eveline Darcy," the butler announces, without a trace of irony. _Eveline_ smiles abashedly, her golden-green eyes sparkling in amusement and her black hair curls around her face. A modest, mauve gown covers her almost boyish figure, and she nods in gracious acknowledgement as I introduce her to Kathrine and Mary. The dress is unfamiliar to me; I wonder where Cain obtained it. Probably in London.

"She's real!" Mary whispers furiously to Kathrine, before turning to Eveline.  "How do you do," she says, struck by a sudden shyness.   

"She's a mute," I explain. This is almost as much fun as when I used to concoct backstories with Cassian, and we pretended to be other people, marveling at their interchangeability and resenting them for their blissful unawareness. That hideous, shallow peace, marked by a deep ignorance of the world. Now if only this charade, too, could end in a murder... 

* * *

 The butler comes in at the tail-end of Cain's charade, meticulously composed, to inform me that I have a call waiting. I slip past Cain, who is nibbling on a scone next to Mary's animated chattering that strikes me as just a touch lonely. The phone is heavy in my hand, as I balance the hearing and speaking parts of it. Although I doubt Scotland Yard gives advance warning to those they are about to arrest, particularly serial murderers, I wonder who it could be. And my heart sinks when I realize it is the family solicitor on the other end. 

 I listen to him, struck mute, as he tells me the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard; I nearly hang up on him. He tells me, in his faintly bored tone, that he recently confirmed that Mother left a house in Dorset to me. The house in the forest, my mind fills in, unwanted. For a moment, sunshine warms my skin—the blissful green surrounds me as far as the eye can see, and the rich smell of the soil hangs in the air. Then the memory recedes, leaving me in the darkened drawing room, with the heavy drapes and breakable china. I have a half a mind to ask him if he held a seance to discover such a thing, before the letter returns to my mind, unbidden. And anger tightens my chest. I resent that everyone has been privy to my business. No doubt, the letter held some maudlin plea for forgiveness and pity and all the sentiments more appropriate for a second-rate novel.

I will never forgive the woman who gave me willingly to the wolves.

The call ends abruptly as it began, but I cannot seem to register any of it. Take a look at it, the solicitor had said. But I don't want to. I don't want to go back there. I don't want to see what it has become. I certainly won't plant roses and dahlias, and make a garden about of that dreadful place. Nothing will end simply because the house has changed hands. 

I'm certain Cain's behind this. It's just like him to meddle in the affairs of others. I suppose he thinks that it would be best if I had a place of my own, away from the family, but it feels as though he wants to be rid of me, and nothing terrifies me more than being disposable. That, I suppose, is how I was molded. Just useful enough to be tolerated, but not valuable enough to be irreplaceable. 

How cruel to ask me to return to the place where I died. 

* * *

>   _Cain_

 As I stare out the train window, the rushing, grey sea of Cornwall gives way to the quaint towns dotting the countryside, and finally endless fields of Queen Anne's lace and yarrow, waving in the breeze. Mary keeps touching the window in amazement at the expanse of England, but Jezabel has been in one of his sulky moods, after Uncle Neil told him that  he could not take the dog with him. Arms crossed, he's been silent the entire train ride, which has begun to unnerve me. 

To try to coax him out of his temper, I settle on an anecdote I heard recently from Uncle Neil. "You contacted the London college recently?"

A brief, sullen nod. 

 Mary slides back onto the seat, momentarily distracted from pointing out every detail of the English countryside. "Did you? Will you really be a veterinarian?"

Jezabel shrugs, still not meeting my gaze. 

"And—" I encourage, unable to keep a smirk from my lips. Remembering the exasperation with which Uncle Neil had told me what had transpired during the phone call. 

Jezabel gives me a curious stare, perhaps wondering how I have come to know how his phone call transpired, before uncrossing his arms.  "He told me the term starts, and," a slight pause, as he takes on a distinctly haughty look, "asked me when _Mr._ Disraeli would be able to attend. I told him that I am _Dr._  Disraeli. I did not go through years of medical school to be addressed as  _Mr_."

 "Already making friends," I add cheerfully. 

 A shriek from Mary interrupts us; her hands back on the window, she stares at the endless expanse of bluebells and wild garlic. "Oh, look, look! Bluebells! A whole field-full!"

 And I know from his darkening face and his guarded demeanor, that we must be here. 

* * *

For a country house, it is surprisingly dark. The curtains have all been pulled shut; dust wanders in the straggling light. I suspect it looked far different when Jezabel was smaller, and I wasn't yet born. How strange to think of what preceded me. He had been alive for almost ten years before I was born. What if we had been raised together, the two unwanted children raised together? Would I have called this place home?

From his barely concealed scowl and the way he crosses his arms tightly, I can tell that this is no longer home for Jezabel. Like me, he is now a wanderer. To return to one's former home, the place that once was one's entire world, is accompanied by a strange loss: the absence of one's former self, the knowledge that one is irreparably different, the loss of the past that can never be recaptured, only dimly remembered. Walking in one's former home feels like being an impostor of who one used to be.

For Jezabel, I suppose this must be the remnants of his past, which lie abandoned to dust, littered in the various, mundane objects: where he thought he was loved by Father, where he thought the world was made of milk and honey, albeit a little loneliness too.  

Perhaps, this is less of a return, and more of a funeral.

 My brother will never have his childhood home again. The plants have all died, replaced by wind-borne strangers, chamomile and marigold, which now flutter in the pots. The paint will never be the same shade. The home will never be, again, but it will change. (I do not mention the rickety gate I glimpsed on the edges of the house. The paint had been nearly stripped from it, but I still recognized it, underneath the clambering, smothering ivy, as the gate to an animal pen. Somethings, perhaps, ought to stay in the past.) 

 He stops near a table, surveying it, and I take this opportunity to glance at the pictures nearby: a woman with light hair, wearily smiling. The tight waist and bustle date her to the 1880s; she clasps a young, laughing boy in schoolboy attire to her. Jezabel, I realize, from the shared light hair. How strange. He seems so... carefree. It's a little unnerving, actually, to imagine him as anything besides quiet, meticulous, and periodically sulky. A sharp almost-pain pierces my chest when I catch sight of the subject of the next photograph. Father. Alone. His glasses catching the glare of the camera. Of course, he has the largest photograph. Mary bounces beside me, and recognizing Jezabel in the photograph, she takes on a thoughtful, calculating look.

"You must have a birthday," she says to him, half hesitant, half thoughtful. Her chubby fingers trace the twisted frame of the photograph.  

"I think he was born as an adult," I jest lightly. "He was never young."

"No," Mary continues, undeterred. "It's been a year." She regards Jezabel slyly. "You _must_ have had a birthday, and we didn't know." 

Jezabel shrugs, and it seems we will escape a lecture on the sinfulness of human beings and their ever-increasing population rates today.

"I'll find it out," Mary vows, peering into the next photograph of Father and Jezabel. The tone has altered considerably: Father looks into the camera, a self-satisfaction lacing his form, while Jezabel, in turn, has a certain blank look under the haughty set to his face. I suppose this must have been taken after he finished medical training. Mary trails behind me, as if we were in a museum. Perhaps we are. She grimaces at Father, and she clasps her arms around her in comfort.

"Come, let's see the rest," I say, suddenly eager to be away from Father's memory. Of course, there's no photograph of Jezabel's sisters. I imagine that Father must have had any destroyed long ago.

Next is the study. Closed off for more than a decade and only periodically tended, the room has a grey coating of dust everywhere. I peer at some of the titles of the books, trying to puzzle out the contents from faded leather spines. As I turn to Jezabel, to ask him about the novels, instead of his usual blank stare  of dissociation when confronted with unpleasant memories, I find only confusion. 

One hand on his chest and the other against the striped wallpaper, he inhales sharply, shallowly, but he doesn't seem to be able to breathe. Is it an nervous fit? I motion him towards a reasonably pleasant chair, still draped in its protective cloth like a ghost on the stage, but he shakes his head, curling on himself. And I am struck by my lack of knowledge, my inability to _do_ anything. My mind whitens with the vast fear that I am watching him die. Mary stares at us, strangely blank. In the place of tears and anguish, she remains perfectly still, as recognition moves across her face. Her hand paused on her mouth.

How to make him breathe?

If he's not breathing, then he only has three to six minutes before permanent brain damage.

 My hand brushes against a forgotten pen in my coat pocket, and a half-remembered fragment of Riff returns to me; we had just found one of the Black Rabbit's latest murder victims, a thirteen-year-old girl who wasn't breathing—almost strangled. The rope burns still red around her throat from where Riff cut her down. A few compression to her chest—and Riff cut a hole in her throat so that she could breathe again. 

Could I?

I haven't a scalpel or a small knife. Could a pen work? How much pressure should I apply? What if I pierce his throat completely, and he bleeds out in front of Mary? I look from the pen to his throat, to the hollow between the tendons. Surely there? The pen is light in my hand; I can hardly hold onto it. God, I wish Riff was here. He could solve this, and instead I am about to unintentionally kill my brother. I'm sure Father would find that humorous, from his place in Hell. 

The pen trembles, light refracting off the metal. But if I don't try—how much time is left? I could, I could—

Before I can make a decision, Jezabel fumbles in his pocket and draws a scalpel from it. He tilts his head back, and with his free hand, he traces the hollow of his throat, settling on a spot. I realize that he must have had the same idea I had. A quick flash of sliver. A thin line reddens his throat.  A single vertical cut.  Then relief shows on his face, and in turn, I nearly collapse in relief. For a moment, all I had seen in my mind's eye was his bloodied throat, his life's blood spilling out from the dark hole I made. The rising and falling of his chest becomes steadier, but the slow arrival of pain makes him grimace, and he turns sickly shade of white. 

And I wonder if he cut too far. Without a mirror, without any means of checking the cut before he made it, he might have severed something critical. From the incision, blood has begun to leak out, radiating across the pale of his throat. And then, without warning, his legs give way, and he crumples to the floor. 

His collapse, however, breaks my paralysis.

"Ring for the butler," I tell Mary, if only to give her something to do, to feel as though she is being useful. She nods, but her eyes are still dark. 

* * *

 The butler helps me move his unconscious form into the another room, one better kept. Sprawled on the chair, Jezabel is disturbingly delicate, again. I preferred it when we were adversaries, and he seemed hard and unbreakable. That was all an illusion, a careful illusion driven by an insatiable hatred and bitterness. 

The first order of business is to tend to the cut.  I check that he's breathing, feeling his breath on my hand, before unwinding the gauze and closing the incision.  

I turn to order the butler around, but he has disappeared with Mary, probably to send her down to the kitchens for a glass of warm milk,  and in the absence of servants to do my bidding, I rummage in the linen closets for a blanket, hoping I don't inadvertently pick one that will send him into a temper. One with lavender embroidered along the edge seems innocuous enough, and I bring it back with me. I begin to tuck it around him, shifting his body slightly, unnerved by the frequency of his fainting spells and quietly fearing that my optimism was misplaced and that Father's prediction might come true after all.  

As he begins to stir, I smooth his hair, lightly combing my fingers through it; but as I do so, a clump falls out, trailing in my hand. My heart quickens at this; surely this cannot be a good sign. He chooses that precise moment to open his eyes. A slight confusion registers on his face, as he surveys the room, no doubt conscious of the softness of the blanket tucked around him, and something akin to an innocent hurt comes over him. I suppose, in Delilah, if he had lost consciousness, he would have likely awoken where he fell, with a gash to mark the event. It is a strange feeling to be cared for, after being ignored for so long. 

Then his gaze drops to my hand. Confusion returns, only to be replaced with an ominous quiet. Unconsciously, he raises a hand to his head, trailing his fingers through his hair, and then he closes his eyes in resignation.

A million words leap to my lips: _you know what this means; you've done this to yourself. You're going to **die** soon, aren't you? _And at the notion of death, at the possibility of death, a certain helplessness returns to me, and the words die in my throat. We remain there, in that heavy silence, struck by the sudden realization that everything has a price, and sometimes that price is death. I knew the effects would catch up sooner or later, but I had always thought of later as something distant, something that would never come if I didn't think about it. I suppose that's the folly of death: one spends one's life blissfully unaware of the limitations, until one finally stands at the end, at the seashore, staring at the vastness of eternity, and then it all seems too short. Not enough to justify the permanence of absence. 

Not for the first time in my life, I want death to be something that affects other people. I'm half sick of it.

"Get rid of it," Jezabel says at last, not looking at me. 

"It won't stop," I reply. "You know it won't."

His mouth tightens. "Aren't you happy? This solves everything."  In his bitterness, there is the quiet anger again that my burden will be lifted with his death, that I can resume my life without him. Because that's what Cain did, after Abel's death. Because that's what I would have done, had he died at Delilah, thankful that my life had one less obstacle in it.  

I fumble for the fragments that he told me about his life before me, realizing how this ended the way that it did. He spoke of eating as a duty, and of course, now that Father is dead, there's no point in keeping a duty to a corpse, let alone Father's. So, it quietly spiraled out of control, because no one noticed, and because he can be quite abrasive when he wants to be. 

 "Would you make it," I try, unsure and feeling quite foolish now, "your duty to me?"

 He only watches me, unfathomable, unconsciously playing with the edge of the blanket. "To you?"

"Since you can't seem to do it for yourself."

"Or what?" He gives me a cold, appraising stare. "You'll _make_ me? Have me locked up and force-fed, until I stop fighting it?"

I puzzle over his sudden accusation, stung from his implication that I would condone such acts, and I realize that, of course, he learned about that in his medical training; I remember the expose in the _Times_ a while ago—it was quite grotesque. A metal gag that induced bleeding in the gums, the rubber tube that choked and irritated the throat as it was forced down. The woman interviewed had vomited over herself after the liquid had been poured down her throat. 

"I can't see how that would help anything," I say, cautiously. 

The fight slowly goes out of him, and he changes tactics, still guarded.  "Are you going to tell Neil?"

"I imagine he already knows." I pause. "You're not exactly subtle about these things."

A short, sharp laugh.  He crosses his arms, shaking his head slightly, clearly upset.

I wonder how awful it must be to have one's liberty be at the mercy of another. Fearing his temper, I decide to diffuse the tension. "Besides, it would be awful if you died," I add, shifting a little."You'd be a terrible ghost." My ploy works a little: he settles back, slightly, giving me a level, if petulant stare that I take as a sign of interest. "For starters, you'd smash things, if no one paid attention to you. And you'd probably get lost and torment some hapless foreigner. And set all their animals free." He smiles faintly at this, and I take it as my cue to continue.  "Goats and sheep and cows, all wandering the countryside." 

A silence comes over us, as he picks at the blanket, half in thought, half in the past.

 "What happened?" I finally dare to ask. "You couldn't breathe. I thought..." _I thought you would die._

 He is silent, lost in thought. "It must have been the dust," he concludes. "It must have triggered a reaction."

"Dust?"

He shrugs. "it's not impossible."

I bite my lip in thought. "What could I have done? I thought about making a hole in your throat." At this I catch a faintly alarmed expression. "To makes sure you could breathe," I clarify, particularly keen on avoiding any misunderstandings; I've grown very fond of all my organs. It would devastate me to have them form the centerpieces of his new collection. 

He gives it only a moment's consideration. "You'd have killed me." One finger trails along his throat, stopping at the hollow. "It's not a procedure for an amateur. You cannot know how much pressure to apply." Our eyes meet, as he presses against the hollow of his throat, and something stirs within me—I tear my gaze away. 

"Tell me what you would have done. To fix this permanently."

He shakes his head. "There's nothing."

"You can bring the dead back to life," I say in disbelief, "but you can't do anything about this?"

_What if you stop breathing again?_

Uncomfortable, he only stares at the wall, frowning, and I wonder if he came here to die, not to build another life, but to end this one. I can almost hear his response: did you think this was one of Mary's fairy stories, where love cures all and pain dissolves like sugar in tea? Of course, I didn't, but sometimes, I like to pretend that death is a possibility that will never come. I know that sometimes all the joy of life does not negate the pain, the unbearable pain of awareness and the knowledge that it will all end some day. It's frightening, some days, to wake, alone, with the knowledge of death and the words never said, dried in my mouth. Even though Riff was such a presence in my life, there are still words I should have said.  _You were the first one who made me feel as though I was worth something_. _You gave me the part of my soul that Father tried to stamp out._ _I miss you. I miss who I was when you were alive._

I glance at the window, eager to leave this melancholy house, with the dust as thick as memories. "Come, let's see the garden."

* * *

The garden lies adjacent to the house. Overgrown grasses nod in the wind, rising from between the stones that comprise the courtyard floor. No chance of having supper outside in this condition. Mary frowns, and dropping to the ground, proceeds to pull out a handful of grasses. The dried seeds rain over her, running down her bonnet, but she does not relent, instead moving to the next with a single-minded determination. I almost pity Oscar now. If she's headstrong as a child, then she'll be quite a formidable wife. 

"Mary."

At her name, she glances up at me. "I _will_ have a place to sit outside. The weather is so nice.  And we traveled so far."

I almost begin to tell her to leave it to the gardeners we will have to hire, but her stubbornness is deeply endearing. Frowning, Jezabel only watches her, his arms crossed. He's still terribly pale, but stubborn enough to stay standing. _It's a cut_ , he said, _not a battle wound._  His spite to prove me wrong seems to have given him a bit of strength. As I crouch beside her, I call out to Jezabel. "Come now, why don't you be the judge? Who can pull up more, Mary or I?"

With a haughty look that tells me that I have lost my mind, he shrugs and sits down beside us. 

The pile among us begins to swell with grasses. Jezabel checks periodically to see how quickly I am progressing, while Mary moves undeterred by soil speckling her pinafore and forearms. I suspect that when I return, I will receive a prompt scolding from Uncle Neil for letting her dress become so dirty. A squeal, and Mary falls backwards, her arms firmly wrapped around a particularly dense tangle.

"Careful!" I begin, but she only shrugs the grasses aside, dusting off her dress. Then as she moves to return to her task, she pauses, frowning as she surveys something near her shoe. "Oh," she says abruptly. "Oh, look!" Wiping off some of the dirt, she then offers her find to me: resting in her chubby palm is the nearly perfect circle of a fossilized creature.

"A snail fossil, I suspect," I tell her. 

Not to be beaten at any sort of scientific inquiry, Jezabel examines it for his expert opinion, and he confirms it reluctantly, to my amusement. 

"When did it live?" she asks us.

"Before there were people," I reply. 

It's Mary's turn to thoughtfully nod, as she pockets the fossil. "How grand," she says softly to herself. "Fancy that. A world without people."

Suddenly alert at the possibility of converting another to his cause, Jezabel opens his mouth to begin one of his favorite diatribes, the despoiling of the natural world, but I intercede in time. "Surely, Mary is about to best me."

"Maybe," he replies, with a grin. "You're not used to working those delicate muscles of yours."

"Says the man who had a fainting spell earlier."

At this, Jezabel is at a loss for a suitable retort, and it's my turn to smirk; I return to my task, smugness lightening my heart, but my sense of superiority does not last long. A tuff of grass, trailing its long, thin roots, lightly smacks my head, sending dirt down my neck, and when I look in Jezabel's direction, he is suspiciously focused on a nasty patch. Moved by a sense of childishness that I thought I had lost, I select one of my recent victims and return the gesture. A gasp, as soil speckles his hair, and I brush away some of the dirt from me. He gives me an appraising gaze, as if determining the most appropriate revenge, and I wonder if this is about to devolve into a series of flying wild grasses. And then, just as I am reaching for another uprooted grass, preparing myself for the inevitable outbreak, he sits back, breathless, stains on the knees of his trousers from impromptu gardening, and grins. 

It's contagious to see him so happy; I cannot suppress a grin of my own. I wonder if he ever had petty squabbles with his sisters, like ours. I had always imagined them to be older, but he must have some memory of them.  

"I won," Mary announces, beaming. "I pulled the most."

 Jezabel surveys her bales of wild grass. "So, you did," he says quietly.

When the butler returns to inform us that supper has been prepared, growing flustered at our impropriety, the courtyard has been laid bare, save for a pile of wilting grasses in the corner. And as we take our supper in the cooling breeze, as the sky begins to darken, a sense of victory steals over me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look. All my fav tropes made a reappearance. Plus cross-dressing Cain. Fancy that. ;) Honestly, I think Mary is about to end up a seriously radical, and rad, lady because of her brothers. I am always here for platonic sibling bonding. 
> 
> This was supposed to end on an unsettling note, but I did not have the heart to ruin their happiness, so that section got moved to the next chapter, when misery returns and there is much pain. *Much* pain. You know the pattern by now. Let's be honest, you all know I only have two writing modes: disproportionate amounts of pain and platonic happiness/bonding.
> 
> Also, public service announcement: please, if you learn anything at all from this fic, besides knowledge of the void that awaits us all, please do not perform a cricothyrotomy with a pen. Especially without a medical license. This is a very bad idea, and it is one of my least favorite tropes. Cricothyrotomies were around as early as the 1800s, but they were not done with ballpoint pens, unless the doctor really hated you and had access to a time machine. 
> 
> The historical realities of force-feeding were based on the account of suffragette Constance Lytton. Go read it if you'd like to not sleep tonight. 
> 
> There's a nod to one of my fav fanfics for this tiny fandom, Behind Glass Bars, in this chapter. I really could not help myself. 
> 
> As always, my eternal love and gratitude to my readers. I'm eternally humbled that anyone is interested in this fic. Feedback is always cherished.


	16. Another Tragedy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read carefully, because this chapter has some extremely questionable, extremely graphic, extremely Freudian content. Let's see, I had just watched Under the Skin, and oh, wow, is that an amazing and disturbing movie. And that inspired this chapter. And honestly, that's all I really need to say in advance.
> 
> You can skip it, if you'd not feeling up to it. I won't judge. The last part is safe to read if you're not up to it.
> 
> That said, this is one of my favorite chapters. I felt fourteen different feelings while writing this. Honestly, this is absurdly intense.
> 
> I do not condone any of this.

> _Jezabel_

 He's there, asleep in the darkness; that's how my dreams always begin. Soft breath passing between his lips, his hair carelessly tossed across his forehead. The falling light is sickle-shaped in his opened mouth; sleep has dried his lips. I love him with a sweetness that has no bounds; I hate him with a fury that threatens to rend me from limb to limb.

 It's not love. It's something far, far worse. 

His limbs are pale as jasmine, and under the careless blanket, I know where to touch. It's easy, so easy. He stirs a little, as I caress his throat, envying his steady, sleep-slowed pulse, tracing over his clavicle. I wonder if he knows how many men I've done this with. Some of them even made the tabloids, posthumously. Scotland Yard chalked it up to a mugger, their standard answer for a clean cut to the throat. They must have struggled, the report said—ha! They never struggled; most never saw the scalpel, in their lust-haze.  

( _Father threw one clipping at my feet, disgusted. "Are you not applying yourself to your work," he asked, "that you have enough time for such sin?"  His lip curled in disgust and faint amusement. His tone informed me that last night's rendezvous would earn me another beating. Good. Let him try. I won't cry out, not anymore. I'm a good victim, and every minute he beats me belongs to me and not Cain._ )  

What Father was wrong about, however, was that it never felt pleasant to be with other men. I always imagined my namesake, dropping her silken robe to the floor for any man; would she know how to make men writhe under her touch? Would she know how to manufacture a facsimile of love? Or did she relish the warmth, the attention that came from accepting a stranger's drunken, leering advance? 

One usually had to pay for one of Mother England's whores, after all. What could be better than getting it for free?

Again, a question of use. To be useful, to be used.

( _"Did you live up to your name, again?" Father asked, as he beat me by the orange halo of gaslight. Gloating, as my muscles seized with every hit of the lash. It was a new one; he broke the other one last week over my back. When I heard it break, I thought for a moment that it was my own bones that had finally snapped._

 _Which one, I thought, as I closed my eyes to the blows. The shepherd or the whore?_ )

 Sometimes, the dream fades there, and he never wakes. Sometimes, he rises, a smirk on his lips, and makes a breathless, trembling wreck of me with his mouth. In turn, I peel his skin back, lovingly, tenderly, marveling at his exposed, taut muscles that keep his organs inside. Another slow incision, dividing up his body, and his blood coats me, running down my face, soiling my hair, as it slowly drip, drip, drips. He pushes a bloody finger past my lips, tasting of metal.

I peer into the dark, glistening cavity in his body, searching for what makes him so different, so special. Why he should haunt me so, after all this time. His organs are firm, but slippery. The hard back of his rib cage brushes my knuckles, almost-black blood clots slip down my wrist—nothing left, but the smooth ridges of his bones.  

Cain smirks. 

 I look up at him, unable to escape his eyes. Is this it? Is this that makes him so special? The marker of his past, his sinful conception? 

The scalpel's blade is still cold, but its handle has been warmed. As I sever the optic nerve, following the curve of his eye socket, the light in his eye dims, and it stills. It is only an ordinary eye now, floating in its own blood and vitreous gel. I cut too deeply, it seems. This isn't it, either. 

I run my soiled hands through my hair, unsure of where to look next. His organs surround us in a careful circle, but what makes him so special is not in any of them. 

Cain grabs my wrist, jerking my arm down, but I do not let go of the scalpel. It flashes in the gaslight, making an arc through the empty air. As I follow its descent, something catches my eye: intestines unwind, spooling on my thighs. The linen bedsheets cling to my skin, damp as they are, and a dark hollow draws my attention; I look down, disinterestedly surveying the hole I have made in myself. My own organs surround me. In the palm of my hand, my own eye, deflated now, unseeing. 

 Struck by my own foolishness, I only stare at Cain, who relinquishes my wrist with a long, careful, appraising stare. He climbs off the bed, and  as he begins to shrug on a shirt, he runs a hand over his unblemished, unbroken skin. He smiles back, triumphant. Unscathed and unfathomable. 

 "Did you find what you were looking for?"

* * *

I'm awake in the dark, waiting for the furtive peeks, the wandering, carefully careless hands that never come. Lying on my back like a good victim, a good lamb, perfectly still. The country air is cool against my skin, but I don't move to cover myself. I'm always cold now. What's one more night? What's one more lamp in the dark, setting itself on top of the textbooks I had been faithfully studying?   

That's not true. I hate being reminded that I cannot have warmth anymore.

The bedroom is sparsely furnished; it's a guest bedroom, after all. A painting of a nymph decorates the opposite wall, her chestnut hair artfully covering her breasts as she surfaces to tempt a man. In the darkness, she has a malevolence that daylight turns to a girlish hesitance. How fitting that I should get this room. 

I run a hand across the raised embroidery of lavender at the edge of my blanket. it fails to soothe me. I'm afraid of the morning. 

Although the curtain is drawn against the night, the difference in the cold of the outside and the warmth of the room causes it to ripple slightly. Past the window, the trees form a line at the edge, marking off the paradise man was exiled from. 

_But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye shall die._

 For a moment, I catch Mother at the edge of the room, smelling of clean linen and rosewater. Anxiety lining her young-old face, as she made her nightly check to ensure that I was still alive. I never understood why, until it was too late. ("Say goodnight, honey," she'd say, staring at a place near me, but never at me, "to your poor mother.") When I was very, very small, she clasp me tightly, and list the names of the stars that hung over the countryside. "Imagine, they're the same stars for us, as they were for the Apostles."

Now that Cassandra has rummaged in my head, picking out whatever made for a sturdy rope, I can remember the morning she tried to leave, all jumbled sensations: the softness of a cotton dress, a sweet to keep me hushed, the shining, red blotches of her face. She seemed so big, then, but she must have been of average height, slender build. I look at her face in the darkened mirror, placid, yet threatening, like the surface of a unfathomably deep lake—her lips, her nose, her slender hands. The dark makes hollows on her sickly body, the grey, malnourished skin and sunken eyes. 

The only pleasure I take from it is that I am not so pretty anymore. I don't have that rich color of fresh corpses, their secrets glistening. 

  _Lest ye shall die._

 But I will die. That much has always been clear. I have one less day now—was it worth it? Did I use it wisely, for it won't return. Even more so, if I tried to live again, the illness that is my inheritance would finish me off soon enough. My hand finds the bandage around my throat—like a collar. I claw it from my neck with a wildness and terror. Never again. 

The thin line greets me, when I glance up again, heaving.  

_Ye shall die._

And die alone. But I've always known that too. 

Mother's family wants nothing to do with her bastard son, that much I've gathered from their silence that is less an absence, and more of a statement. I suppose they're ashamed of her wanton behavior, the loose daughter who spread her legs for the first man who made her feel like she mattered. What a charming inheritance. It doesn't really matter what I do, I'll always be little Lucretia's bastard child first. The woman who didn't know that gifts always come with a price.

And who wants the bastard child?

Cain's plan is so sickeningly transparent: have me build a new life in the few months I have left, out of sight, out of the family; indulge me, so that he doesn't have a guilty conscience when I die, gasping, and his life is free again; and then congratulate himself for being a better person than Father ever was. 

He won't escape so easily. I won't let him.  This will never, ever end, not until one of us is under the soil, his blood crying out. Cain and Abel. Who loved each not in life, but death. Who God drove apart, and then bound together, though his protection of Cain, who could never forget just what he had wrought. If Father's curse was to have me know love—and that it is but an illusion—then this is mine: I will damn Cain to hell, if only that we will be together there—and I will not face it alone.

I suppose it runs in the family.    

* * *

 He's there in the study, meager by the Hargreaves standards, but still well stocked. He's pretending to read by gas lamp, but he hasn't turned the page. The bound leather hard against his still-soft, boyish hands, but shadows collect in the lines around his eyes and the deep circles that come from seeing far too much. His lovely eyes, deep green and gold, shimmer, as he bits his lower lip to maintain his facade. 

I don't have to ask _why_. 

The dead have such strange demands: remember, forget. But no one can ever accurately remember a person. A perception, certainly, but not a person. Cain knew Riff as the iron valet who loved him like a child, like a lamb. I knew Riff as an artificial being, whose soul, or lack thereof, was only a matter of idle conversation between me and Dr. Zenopia when we were bored. He was a matter of scientific inquiry, yes, something to reduce to the cold objectivity of a report. ( _Riffael required X milliliters, this time. His resolve appears to be growing_. _Foreseeable problems: mental conditioning, potential organ failure. Surgery too risky?_ )

Zenopia thought he had a soul, and I thought he was merely playing the devil's advocate, arguing with me for argument's sake. I suppose, it's easier that way—crueler, but easier. If Riff had a soul, even though he was only a creation of Father's, then that meant there was a God after all, who watched for the fall of a sparrow, bestowing souls where there had been none. 

I'm still not convinced, though. A God who notices his children is not always a benevolent one. 

But even now, Riff's loss is still tangible, for when he died, the world died, for Cain. And then it awoke again, cold and pale and indifferent. What's one man, one moment, when the universe will only slow to a frozen death? If there is nothing after this life, then what does it matter? If nothing will survive, then why bother trying? 

Cain closes the book quietly, sliding it onto the table for the butler to take care of in the morning. As he does so, he spots me, finally, and surveys me, his face weary and motionless. He opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind. 

I am only a ghost in his world, the ghost of the past, with a stolen body and a ruined mind. I want him to suffer for what his life cost me, I want to ruin him like I was ruined. I want to steal every flicker of warmth from his body. I'll give him his fantasy, and he'll give me my punishment. 

I take his hand, marveling at the tension of the muscles, the twitching of the tendons in his wrist, but he only watches me, with his eyes made large and empty by the dearth of light, unsure if I am about to hurt him or not. He waits. My fingers unfold his hand, circling his palm, as if the answer will come to me—but it never does. Live, or don't live—it means nothing to the mass of cold emptiness that envelopes the earth. But it means something to him. Is that where it is, that ever-elusive meaning? 

I wonder if there's an indulgence in my self-destruction, my pain before his. I have the pain of not having a body of my own; he has the pain of not knowing if what he has will last. My heart abandons its rhythm, fluttering; it's a nauseating, disorienting sensation, like missing a stair. I don't know how to convey that my body is failing, I can't seem to tell him. I guide his fingers to my throat, and for a moment, bewilderment and horror and disgust show on his face: he thinks I mean to put his hand around my throat. I lightly press his fingers against the jugular, just firmly enough that he can feel my pulse. There, again, my heart stumbles. 

I was expecting understanding, yes, but not anguish. But it _is_ anguish that pulls at his face, slumping his shoulders in resignation. 

"Is that it?" he asks, searching my face. _Is that how you'll die?_ _From a heart that never worked properly?_

(Ha—that's one for the morality plays! But life is no such thing, and I am so terribly cold.)  

I raise his fingers and press them ever so gently to my lips. 

His lips, in turn, part in an unspoken wish, his pulse racing. His eyes fall on me, wide and wanting; his hands grip the chair, as if he cannot believe that the secret desire in his veins will be satisfied. Give this to me. Give this immortality to me. The motions come easily enough—one hand to tilt his face upwards, another on the inside of his thigh to tempt him—but part of me is screaming to stop, that I will kill something inside both of us with my foolishness.

His lips are soft, and they steal my breath, my life. His hands firmly against my arms, in a mute show of refusal, but I am too cold to let him be. I move to his neck, remembering that many of my victims also enjoyed that. How sick, how utterly fitting that this is all I know of "love." Is he my next victim, then?

He's whispering something, having finally found his voice, but I don't listen. It doesn't matter. It never has. He gasps, as I trace a path down his throat, as my fingers unbutton his light gown.  The final mother-of-pearl button falls free; as I slide my hand up his thigh, up the yards of thinly-woven cotton, it bunches around my wrist. 

Paralyzed by his desires and fear, he only sits there, his chest heaving in lust and his lips murmuring their refusal to indulge this, to let me take my due. _You took that from me,_ I want to say, _you took Father's love from me, and now I'll take your peace of mind, your smug self-assurance. If you want the Hargreaves name, then you should have the curse as well._

 Father would be laughing at us now. _Aren't you a lovely whore? Seducing your own brother. Your own blood._ I try to drown out his words in Cain's body, as my movements grow more desperate. _None of you shall approach any blood relative to uncover nakedness. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father, that is, the nakedness of your mother. She is your mother; you are not to uncover her nakedness. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father's wife; it is your father's nakedness._

Leviticus continues, a steady deluge of judgement, as I uncover my brother's nakedness, unveiling that organ that has begun to flush and swell: _Th e nakedness of your sister, either your father's daughter or your mother's daughter, whether born at home or born outside, their nakedness you shall not uncover. The nakedness of your son's daughter or your daughter's daughter, their nakedness you shall not uncover; for their nakedness is yours. The nakedness of your father's wife's daughter, born to your father, she is your sister, you shall not uncover her nakedness. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father's sister; she is your father's blood relative._

Merely touching it, however, is not enough. Amid Cain's soft encouragement, I raise it to my lips, and take it into my mouth. His hips buck at the sudden warmth and his hands find me, but a chill runs down my back at the horrid familiarity of it all, and I am split between states—between my brother's legs in one, and on my back in the other, with Cassandra's thick shaft pushing into my throat and his hand grasping my hair. 

( _See, you can take it,_ Cassandra chuckles, indulgently. _Relax, love._ )

_Tobacco smoke and patchouli, sharp and sweet, hangs in the air, as I lie there, my jaw aching as it's forced open by the wet, thrusting intrusion. Grunts replace his patronizing sighs at my stubborn streak. There's an angel on the ceiling, gold and immobile, its avian wings unfurling. There's an angel on the ceiling, with its golden harp and its carelessly tied sandals and its unseeing, gentle smile. There's an angel on the ceiling, and it's staring at the east, where God sits, but it knows, and I know, that God is never there when it counts._

Cain's hips jerk, and he cries out, softly, too soft to attract attention.

_As he shudders, the inevitable outcome of his efforts filling my throat, my only thought is to spit it out, to get it out; I don't want it inside me. But it goes down, thick and viscous and hot. It slides down, and Cassandra smiles, made indulgent again by the post-coital haze of endorphins._

The proof of his sin (and my sin as well) wells in my mouth, and I swallow it down, because that will hurt the most. Because this is about how much pain I deserve. He trembles, painfully over-sensitive now, and I want to spit it up, because I don't want it inside me. And that's the only thought in my mind—that I have to get it out, because it's poison, because I don't want anything inside me.

I bolt, resisting the urge to peel open my flesh to get to the poison settling in my body.  

Cain moves, at last, awoken from his shock. He's shaking his head, horror distorting his lovely face. His gown drapes off one ivory shoulder, and the lower part is still bunched up around his thighs. It's over; I've ruined this feeble bond. He won't ever lie next to me again. He'll leave in the morning, disdain tightening his lips and shortening his farewell. And it will be a farewell.

 ( _He is your brother, you shall not uncover his nakedness._ )

There is something so ugly inside me that it can never be loved.

_I named you well._

(But you made me this way.)

* * *

 It doesn't come out. 

 Yellow bile sours my mouth and collects in the drain of the porcelain sink, but it doesn't come out. It never will. 

( _Here are the pieces that used to be Snark. Was this part of his belly that you loved to rub? Was this his neck that bore his silver bell? And this his leg that ran so fast? Look, all his parts are uniform in death_.)

Cain will be gone in the morning, that much I'm certain of. This is unforgivable. I've made him into Father now, soiled him in a way that he won't forget. Testing a love like that will only lead to trouble. I found the lines that bordered our relationship and I tested them, and this is the price of it all. 

I can't bear to look at my reflection, so I glance down instead, focusing on washing the almost florescent bile down the drain, away from me, away from God. I misjudge the temperature of the water—instead of being cold, it's warm, and I cannot remove my fingers from the water, as it falls down my numb fingers, hoping that it will impart some warmth, any warmth. Valuable hot water, freshly heated when the maid woke up, falls through my fingers, but I'm still cold and soiled.  

It dampens a sleeve of my dressing gown, darkening the silk as it spreads. 

How fitting.

I turn the handle again. The water ends. 

Someone is in the doorway. Cain. I don't have to look, and I longer have the strength to, anyway. For a moment, I can imagine myself through his eyes. Spots on the front of my dressing gown have stiffen in a pattern only God knows, from either the bile or seed; it doesn't really matter. My face is wet and my eyelids are swollen, so much so that closing them is almost painful, and my body is so heavy.  Part of the bile has dried in my hair—how disgusting. The acrid smell alone gives me away: it's not difficult to ascertain what I've been doing in his absence.

  _"Why"_ dies on his lips. He knows why.  He might even have done this himself, with someone else. 

 He is a ghost, in his stained cotton nightgown, and like all ghosts, hurt and anger shine in his eyes from my betrayal. Is this why he's come? To exact his revenge? To uncover the _why_ of it all, as if I am only a riddle to be solved?

 If I am transparent, then so is he. He was in the hall, contemplating the weight of a revolver so long that it left an imprint in his right palm, faintly red in the candlelight. He's here, because he knows that his death would only bring about more. His blood, my blood, our destructive, _cursed_   blood cannot be contained.

It's Mary who dissuaded him from finding out if there really is a hell after all. He held the revolver to his temple, and thought about how unspeakable it would be for her, to wake up to the fresh morning. All beaming smiles, playfully wandering the empty halls, boredom eventually driving her to open the door to find her beloved older brother limp, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot. Blood and brains sprayed on the walls, like a madman's love note. I've seen the aftermath of those scenes, even caused some of them. (When faced with the notion of Father's retaliation, some of his former associates chose to take the easy way out.) Sometimes the exit wound is not clean, sometimes it opens the entire side of one's face. Mary would be left alone in the world. Again. Orphaned in a different way.  And it would not end there: there is no note in the world that would keep her from blaming herself for the rest of her days, for not seeing the signs, for not being enough. And that fear and anguish would be imparted onto her children.

It would never end. 

He stands in the doorway, pity and horror and anger on his face, and without a word, leaves. 

* * *

> _Cain_

 It's over. 

I'm soiled now. 

(But once soiled, a soul can never know innocence again. Isn't that what Father said?)

I pace the room, disgusted by myself and frightened of what lurks inside me. Where will this end? With Mary? Will I hurt her? Changing into my traveling clothes, I make my choice: I cannot remain here. The overcoat is heavy on my shoulders. 

I think of Mary, still innocently sleeping, still unaware that everything has changed, and my nightmare, and my desire, God help me, my _desire_ , has come true. For all my refusals, it thrilled me to feel his lips on mine, his body against mine. I wanted it. And what does that make me? Father, who only took what he wanted? Mother, with her haunted eyes and ramblings? Did I steal the life from my brother now? And why? Why would he do such a thing?

Deciding to take Mary back to the train station regardless of the hour, I turn to leave, but something catches my eye. On the windowsill, affixed to the heavy curtain by a careless wind is a single lavender flower, a faded bell. I remember grabbing handfuls of them, when Riff had taken ill, only to throw them into his sickbed. And he smiled gently, sensing all the worry that I could never voice.

Surely, surely not?

I almost scoff at myself for thinking such nonsense, but the desperate child in me leaps at this. 

"Are you there?" I ask, hesitant.

Crushed lavender powders my coat, untouched by a human hand. The longer I stare at the flowers, the more clearly I can see him there, gentle and reassuring. I stretch my hand, and can imagine his hand enveloping mine. 

"Don't leave me here," I whisper. "Not again." 

Phantom arms encircle me, and phantom hands stroke my hair. "Shh. Shhh. I'm here, Lord Cain."

I burrow into the scent of bergamont and clean linen. "Don't leave me." I start to choke. "I-I can't do this." My sight blurs, as the phantom arms tighten, protectively. "You were wrong about me."

"You're not your father."

"I am," I choke. "I am, don't you see?" Or does your love blind you to my faults? "There's something wrong with me, something that can't be fixed."

"Lord Cain!" 

"One day, I'll hurt Mary too! I hurt everyone in the end!"

"You won't. You haven't."

"How do you know," I demand, hot tears falling into my mouth.

"I know you." A quiet, yet fierce determination enters Riff's voice, and he takes me by my shoulders. "You will never be Lord Alexis."  

"Promise me!"

For a moment, his grey eyes meet mine, and I do not debate if this is a ghost or a projection of my lonely mind. It's real. He rocks me gently, and I lean into his embrace, the warmth of his comfort. His voice washes over me, his hands hold me together. We are together again, if only briefly.

We don't need words anymore. I know what he means to say: _I'll be here for as long as you need me_.

"Then you'll be here forever," I whisper. 

A kiss to my forehead, as he fades, as I reach for the now empty air. Hiccups seize my chest now, as I brush away my tears. I know why my brother did what he did. I've done the same, trying to find my worth in the bodies of others, anyone else. Those weren't the tears of a scorned lover, they were the tears of an angry, disappointed, terrified child. He's afraid of being alone and the only way he can fathom of asking for reassurance is through physical intimacy—reassurance and punishment all at once... Because his world has been slowly deteriorating, and he's acutely aware that he's dying, and he wanted a bond that could never be severed, not by the family, not by death, not even by God. No matter the punishment.

 I pause, a terrible ache of understanding stretching through my chest. 

 And I glance back.

* * *

> _Jezabel_

 Time stills.

Aware that it has come to its end. An end.

I remain there, staring at the empty blue of the wallpaper, and when I turn my head, my heart jolts. He's there, again, his expression unreadable, dressed in his traveling coat. 

_Why?_

"You didn't—" He wets his lips. "You didn't hurt Mary, did you?" The hard determination in his eyes tells me that he would never forgive me for that, for taking her innocence. 

I shake my head, mute and drained. 

He nods slowly at this, as if addressing some worry inside his head. Some of the resolution leaves him, and I wait for the weary resignation of _I'm leaving in the morning. I can't help you. No one can._ I know all that, but I don't want to be solved. I don't want to be fixed. And if this is over, then I want it to be my doing. 

He's not the one living in a failing body and a failing mind. I curl on myself as another coughing fit seizes me, burning my throat. Blood speckles the silk. I suppose it's ruined now. I doubt I'll see the end of this month. 

He frowns. "You shouldn't have done that. It was—" His voice breaks under the strain. "It was a wicked thing to do."

I turn away from him. I know he'll be gone again in the morning, and I don't want his feigned sympathy. "Just go," I manage, my voice rough and nearly hoarse. "You want to go, anyway."

He only watches me with a mixture of anger and pity, then something gives way and he crouches beside me, his coat trailing on the floor. Oh, he's still angry, but he's trying to hide it now. "Come now," he says, weary and frustrated. "You really are a handful, aren't you?"

Against my resolve, the tears start to make their way down my face, and something moves across his face, as if he understands _why_. 

"You shouldn't have," he repeats firmly, as if unsure that I do not know it's deeply immoral to seduce one's own brother.

 This might have begun as an exercise in danger, but it ended in the terror of loneliness. I know he thinks of me as a cruel, obsessive being driven by a misplaced rage, just as I have thought of him as coddled and indulged and above all, swaddled in love and adoration. Because that is what Father told me all these years. I suppose I still harbor some resentment towards him after all this time.

"...I know," I admit.

He takes note of my state, still wounded, still angry, still afraid. Pity prevails, however, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

"Promise me," he begins, steadying his voice, "Promise me that you won't _ever_ do that again." 

I watch him, numb and suddenly afraid of his offer. "Don't you want to go," I almost ask, and a small terror begins in my body. I'm afraid of this love I have sought for so long, afraid of what it means that he wants to work through this. 

 _No_ comes as easily to my lips as   _Yes_. My throat tightens, and my voice escapes me. To choose, that's all that's left, and it is a choice, not a test. 

"I swear it." 

Cain searches my face for something, and finding his sign, releases a breath he had been holding in. He nods slowly again, to himself. Guilt shows on his face, over my advances. 

"It wasn't you," I say abruptly. 

For a moment, confusion registers on his face, before something akin to a wounded gratitude replaces it. The silence that falls over us is a queer one, heavy and muted. After changing into a fresh nightgown, he returns to tend to me. He hands me a change of clothes.

"Take a bath and go back to bed," he says, not unkindly, the hurt still in the lines of his body. My transgression will take some time for him to bear, and I quietly regret my carelessness.

 He turns the tap, struggling with the stubborn faucet, before it yields, spilling forth iron-flecked water. I suppose the pipes are still shedding their innards. He adjusts the water temperature, holding a finger under the running water, until it reaches a suitable state. Then, shaking off the water, he leaves me alone, with a reminder to go back to bed, having done all that he's capable of, right now.     

 Steam gently clings to the mirror, and I check the lock several times before I turn my attention to the task of disrobing. It slides off my shoulders easily, pooling onto the floor around my ankles. The water covers my body, slowly, steadily. In the water, I survey my body for the first time in a while: the bruises that inexplicably appear, like weeds; the sea-gray hair that Mother would not recognize, trailing along the surface of the bath; the pale skin, marred in places, smooth in others. A sort of pity comes over me for my body, not unlike what I might feel for a beaten dog. It kept me alive, even when I desperately did not want to be. 

I suppose I can't keep running, can I? Everything wants its pound of flesh, and this is no different. This is the only home I'll have, the one made of breath and skin and bone, so terribly breakable, but mine alone. It doesn't feel like mine, but maybe there will be a time when it does. One day, perhaps. What a frightening thought, that one day, that I might find a certain peace with it. 

"You haven't drowned, have you?" comes from the other side of the door, irritated and worried. 

 Despite it all, I cannot keep from smiling, just a small smile. After everything, even though he is still hurt and will be for quite some time, he still cares.  

 "Not yet." 

* * *

 He's there in the morning, a little more reserved than usual, but there. 

Together, we take our breakfast. I nearly bolt at the idea of eating, let alone eating in front of another, but this is what I have chosen, and more importantly, it is my duty, I suppose. It's not easy—I don't want anything inside me, but I still drink the tea, trembling at the sensation. 

"Have you thought about what to do with the house?" Cain asks, watching me closely, wondering if it is the house that drove me to my folly. He's still reserved, and, no doubt, will be for some time. When I shrug, he continues. "You could make it an animal sanctuary," he offers, pouring himself another cup of tea.  

 An animal sanctuary.  

I had never considered that before. A refuge for animals, for God's creatures. There's enough land, certainly, and I'll have the expertise to care for them. 

"It's only a suggestion," Cain adds, at my stunned silence.

Mary peeks into the room, checking for servants that would rather children eat apart from adults, and finding none, joins us at the table, clambering on a chair. I don't remember her dress—it must be new. It's a deep blue satin, clearly a Sunday dress, gathered up in the back to form a bustle. It's well-crafted, but dated. No one has worn a bustle for nearly two decades now. Surely Cain wouldn't dress her like that? 

"You won't believe what they gave me," she says brightly, as she begins to fill her plate. 

 Cain frowns at her dress. "Where did you get that dress?"

  Mary begins to thickly butter a slice of bread. "They gave it to me," she says, beaming, and I realize whose dress it must be. My blood stills. 

 "It wasn't yours to take," Cain says quickly, worry now tinging his voice. He glances towards me, gauging my reaction. "Go change."

 Mary puts her knife down. "It _is_ mine. The girls gave it to me," she says, slightly perturbed now. "The girls in the attic said it was quite alright. They said everything was alright now." She bites her lip a little, before  turning her gaze towards me. "You didn't tell me you had sisters."

"Mary," Cain warns, but Mary has never listened to her beloved Big Brother, and will not start now. 

"They've been waiting," she says, childishly earnest now. "They're so lonely in the attic, but they're happy you've come back." I nearly bolt from the table, my heart loud. To think that they had been here, all this time. Waiting, watching. What must they think of their wayward little brother? I'm afraid to ask what they think. "They said they tried to talk to you, but you can't hear them." 

The voice. 

Were they calling me back? 

"They told me your birthday, too," Mary adds, before reciting the date like a dutiful student. She grins, triumphant.

Cain frowns, calculating. "Easter," he says, faintly surprised. "You were born on Easter?"

"That's why I had a lamb," I reply, quietly. An Easter lamb for her Easter son. 

A look of sudden remembrance crosses Mary's face, her mouth making a perfect "o." She presses something into my hand. It's the bell Snark wore. The cornflower-blue ribbon has nearly rotted away, and the bell is rusted, but it is his bell all the same.  

"It's yours," she says, a little hesitant. 

 _"Did you find what you were looking for?"_ returns to my mind, unbidden. I look around the room, at the pale light straggling in; at Cain, whom I tried to drive away and who saw through my plans; at Mary, whom I will never love as a sister, but might find a tolerance for; at the promise of the endless fields outside—and I finally have my answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second to last chapter, and I am both sad and happy to have finally finished this fic. If you haven't stopped by to say hi, my lovely shy readers, now's your chance! :D I love and cherish feedback.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	17. Hiraeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the end to the restructuring and adding. This chapter was added after I re-read the fic, because I think it’s needed after the turmoil of the last chapter. It felt really abrupt, and I wanted to fix that. So, have a bonus chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

> _Jezabel_

The attic is strangely quiet.  Soft light brightens the floors, and the heaviness of camphor lingers in the old air—no doubt mean to deter any moths. Nearby, a box lies opened; inside are finely made children’s dresses, all dated twenty years ago. I run a hand along a thin cotton dress, watching the ruffle glide though my grasp,  aware that this is the closest I will ever come to my sisters.

Besides what lies inside me.

I don’t want to be here, in this tomb, but I have to know if Mary was telling the truth.

The rocking chair stirs slightly, as if someone has just gotten up from it. Am I in the presence of my sisters?

  If I try my best, I can almost remember how they looked— their printed cotton dresses, the long blonde braids flapping under their bonnets. Bright eyes and child smiles.

“Are you there?” My voice is bereft of pleading or yearning. There’s a blankness to it that I do not recognize, perhaps even a little melancholy. Have they been watching me this entire time? Do they know just what I have done? The lives I have taken? 

The rug slides a little towards me.

(Y _ou’ve kept us waiting long enough.)_ The voice comes not from inside my head, but closer to the ground. It’s a girlish, petulant, _familiar_ voice.  Then, it softens, and I have the mental image of a girl uncrossing her arms. ( _You’re very tall, you know_.)

( _We’ve been so bored here!)_ A second, younger voice adds. ( _But you brought us someone to play with!_ )

A thousand questions fill my head, but the first voice continues on. ( _Yes, the nice girl. Mary._ ) Then, a little slyness enters her voice. ( _She’s your sister, too_.)

“Half-sister,” I correct, abruptly,  not wanting her to take their place—not yet.

( _Oh, Jezabel_.) Something stirs in me, at the sound of my name, at the voice I never thought I could hear again, only approximate with my collection. ( _That’s not what matters._ )  And yet, age tinges my sister’s voice—she would have been in her thirties, if she was still alive.

“Why?” I say suddenly, afraid and angry that I have wasted so much time chasing phantoms. “Why wait?” Why wait for me?

A sharp inhale of feigned annoyance. ( _You’re my little brother. You don’t think I’d let you go out there by yourself?)_

“Where were you all this time? Here?” Guilt and shame come over me. “…aren’t you angry with me?” At the heavy, questioning pause, I continue.  “I’m alive at your expense. Don’t you despise me? Don’t you see what I’ve done with your sacrifice?”

A long silence ensues, as she were greatly saddened. If I try hard enough, I can imagine her there, her hands dipping into the starched pinafore pockets, unconsciously searching for reassurance. ( _You must promise me something_.)

I can easily guess what it must be. “To never leave you alone again?”

 _(You must forgive him.)_ My sister’s voice is quietly solemn.

Something burns in my throat. “Cain?” I didn’t think she knew, but if she does, how much else has she seen? She must know, if she knows about Father and Cain.

( _He didn’t—he wasn’t responsible._ )

“Because I was?” I say, bitterly, noticing the slight hitch in her voice, as she stumbles over her own death. “Is that my punishment, then? To live here, with all my memories? Forsaken and abandoned?”

How long did she grapple with the horrifying nothingness, only to discover that she had no more influence in this world than there? Was she angry that her life had been stolen from her, as she watched the world age without her?

She is no longer a child, but also not a woman. 

“I can’t forgive him. I won’t.” Because then you’ll really be dead. An idea reaches me. I could join her here, forever. “Do you want it back?”

Weariness clouds her voice. ( _You’d be dead.)_

“We’d be together.”

( _Don’t be foolish_.) A soft, cold breeze brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. ( _You always were_.)

Her voice softens, and in that moment, I break—I don’t want to be alone. I want to be in her arms, like I was after one of our childish fights. She had given one of her porcelain dolls to me, a heavy thing with curled, chestnut hair, and I, with all mysterious, boundless childish admiration, had wanted to be with my sisters, who often did not want a boy in their games. I couldn’t hold onto the doll, and it dropped, cracking the face along the side, and she slapped me for it. And when her anger relented, when the sudden pain made me begin to cry, she regretted her actions. Dropping to her knees, she pulled me into a clumsy embrace. “ _Don’t cry, don’t cry_. “

But she can’t do that now.

I won’t find out how different Cassian’s arms are from Father’s; I won’t have a thousand childish fights with my sisters.  And I have missed so much.

( _Please forgive him, Jezabel. For me_.)

* * *

Deep in the forest, past the open grasses near the house, the air is almost newly born. It’s heavier, cleaner.  My head feels lighter here, in God’s country. I fumble through the winding  trail, only a stranger now to my first home. I follow it further and further deeper, searching for any trace of myself in the thin, stretching trunks and the damp calendula, cheerfully colonizing the forest, having made its escape from the kitchen garden decades ago.  

By a patch of hellebore, with their white petals leaking onto the ground, however,  is Cain. He frowns as he carefully takes a sample for his collection, making sure to avoid skin contact with the plant. Hurt tightens his lips when he spots me. Around his collar, there is the faint smudge of a healing bruise.

“That’s where you were,” I say quietly, bitter that he’s chosen to fall into the embrace of the first woman he could charm. Probably one of the maids. It’s a perverse sort of cleansing, I suppose.

He becomes defensive. “Why shouldn’t I?” And under his hurt tone, I can hear his accusations—he had to feel something else, something that wasn’t a crime on his skin. To persuade himself that if he could still feel desire for women, that the curse didn’t have him in its thrall. “After—after _that_.”

His words are like a stone sinking into the water. I have done this to him. I have gotten what I wanted, but at a terrible price.  I suppose I could appeal to my nature, but we both know that that’s not true. Still, I remain silent as the pain of having his nightmare come true weighs down on him.

He stares into the trees, furiously blinking away tears.

“You don’t know what you did. You—“ He tries to steady himself. “I saw him there, deep inside me—after—afterwards. Is that what you want? To endlessly remind me that I am only Father?” His gaze fixes on me. He’s pale and shaking with horror and anger.   This is everything he wanted to say, but held back that night. “I saw his poison spreading,” he says in a furious, hurt, horrified whisper. “But-but I’m not.” Something hardens his words. “I’m not Father.”

He says this with the conviction of a hurt, angry child.

 _Forgive him_.

As a hot tear slide down his face, as his lips tremble, I realize what she meant.  It’s not that he committed the sin of being born. Yes, if he had never lived, then my sisters might not have died, but what does that solve? They’ll still be dead even if he is. When he is. And they don’t want me to be angry with him for the rest of our lives.

What does forgiveness look like?

Is it a single act, or it a series of little ones?

He nearly bolts and I surprise myself as well, when I touch his cheek, slowly, slowly wiping the tear away. That’s what brothers do, right? In between the fighting and the scraped knees? He searches my face for a sign of what I plan next.

It’s a stiff, awkward gesture, but the warmth of his skin is a welcome distraction from how foolish and sentimental I’m being. As I move to pull away from him, he catches my hand. He must have tried to rationalize this night after night—that anything done willingly must not be a curse, that there would be not children to carry on the curse. Like he did with Riff—that Riff wouldn’t mind becoming soiled with him, taking on some of his poison.  And he never proposed anything, because he, correctly, realized that we could never have anything together without breaking something inside both of us.

A pause comes over us, and I take in the forest—the way the rain has stained the trunks dark; the flat, dropped leaves; the quiet, oblivious stroll of ants along the branches, disappearing deep into the oak. We’re alone here, surrounded by the innocents. 

“What now?” he asks quietly, the tension drained. “What do we do?”

“Hm, I think you’re fond of telling me to live and leave the past behind.” I pause. “I suppose you marry and have a whole lineage of meddlesome, bothersome children.”

He laughs a little. “Someone needs to take over the family business.”

“Well, don’t tell Neil, then,” I add. “He keeps hoping you’ll leave this behind.”

But there’s a question on his lips, the one I deliberately ignored, the question of what to do. We’re both old enough to know better, to be able to say no—and yes. Something moves inside me. Here it is, an ending of my own choosing. We can live the rest of our lives never knowing how it feels to have such a love freely given, never indulging our desires. If we do so willingly, is it still a curse?

“I’m not like you,” he says quietly. “I would like to marry someday.”

There it is, how far this can go. The little lines that govern our lives.

“I know.”

That’s what this has been about—what shape our futures will take.

“I should hope that you would not be angry with the woman I choose to love,” he says carefully.

I nearly laugh, recognizing the sly way he’s trying to make me to promise not to take revenge on his future wife.  “You would love her?”

He nods.

He’s closer now, and his golden-green eyes are truly beautiful. Hesitation parts his lips; his hand curls slightly on mine. The pressure is dizzying. Then he begins to pull away.

“Yes,” I say abruptly.

He repeats my reply carefully, searching my face, and annoyed at his hesitance, I pin him against the tree, lightly pressing his wrist to the damp bark as I open his mouth. He recovers his breath when we part, an undeniable grin on his face. This is not the love that endures. It’s not about revenge. It’s not about what genetic terrors may yet sleep in our blood.

It’s communion.

We stay that way for a while, his hands curling into my back, his breath warming my skin, his hair brushing against my shoulder. I find the vein on his neck, lightly pressing on it to feel his pulse, to still be connected to him. He shifts a little, uncomfortable, but allows me this, for a little while.

He presses me closer. “I want him back,” he confesses. His voice is so small that I hardly recognize it. “I want to hold him again.”

“It’s not the same, is it?”

He sighs next to my ear, half trembling, half wistful, as his head rests on my shoulder again. Then he pulls away, and the rush of cool air pains me. He gives me a long, questioning glance, before making his mind up. Is this our parting?

“Do you like it here?” he asks, brushing a fallen leaf off his coat. “It’s like something out of a fairy story. The house in the woods. I bet all the woodland creatures will flock to you the moment I turn around.”

I shrug, following his lead. My heart sinks at the notion of his leaving. That’s what’s coming next. So long, and farewell. The revolting  feeling of being used coils inside me. In response, I only shake my head and cross my arms, not ready to talk about the immense guilt and sorrow that comes over me every time I think of them.

He softens, and something lingers on his lips, like it lingers on mine—the question of love. But he’s decided something, perhaps sensing my reluctance.  “You’ve been gone for eighteen years now. Eighteen years we should have had together. Well, I want them now,” he says with the haughty air of a prince, his hands on his slender hips. “You owe them to me.”

“Eighteen years,” escapes my lips. What a long time; his lifetime, most of mine.

“Yes,” he replies, even more smugly now, if that’s possible. “We will quarrel and forgive all the same. And you will tell me how my fiancée does not deserve me, or rather, how I do not deserve her. How I should give up humiliating Scotland Yard—which I shan’t. And I will tell you not to quarrel too much with your supervisor at the college, even if you are correct. And not to be too cross with farmers and all the rest.  And remind you that you help no animals by forgetting to take care of yourself. And I will come over when you need me, or I need a chemical analysis or a refuge from the family. Or simply because I want to—and you will do the same.”

A soft pause, as his eyes search mine.

“Like brothers do,” he concludes quietly, his hand on my arm.  He watches me, confident in that infuriating manner that I will not refuse his wishes.   

“You’re absolutely insufferable,” I manage, captivated once more by him.  

He grins, relieved and pleased and mysterious all the same. “Someone has to be.”

His gaze turns back in the direction of the house in the woods, my house in the woods, and together, we follow the deer trail back, picking our ways through the dried brambles and pale sprouts and kneeling branches and slippery, decaying leaves and mossy trunks and mushroom-eaten stumps and primroses peeking between their leaves and owl-eyed sparrows and the hum of an elusive creek; unsteady, unsure, and yet undaunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, as always.


	18. Epilogue: On the East of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the very end. Thank you for reading this far.

> _Jezabel_

Morning has returned to the forest. The sheep have begun to stir in their pens, and so I release them into the pasture, running a hand along the oily wool of a Devon Closewool. Soon they'll want for a shearing. How strange that time continues on, unencumbered by its own weight.

As I survey my little flock, idly scratching the ear of a dog rescued from the vivisection table, I wonder if anyone from the Anti-Vivisection Society is stopping by today. The Brown Dog affair has stirred up the country, and perhaps public opinion can be swayed in favor of a ban on vivisection. Given that the affair has divided the abolitionists and medical students, I thought it prudent to offer my own opinion, as a medical professional, and promptly sent copies of my opinion to five separate papers. (I did not, of course, mention that I am not opposed to the practice in the least on people.) 

Rubber against the gravel of the drive announces Mary's arrival. She hops off her bicycle, unencumbered by her long skirts, her hair still girlishly unbound, even as societal standards dictate that, as an adult, she ought to wear her hair up. A little shriek announces that Florie has spotted her mother from her place near the fence: she races to her mother, having arrived earlier with her nurse, who has grown quite frustrated with keeping track of a child keen on petting all the animals.  Mary spins her daughter around, holding her close. Shrieks of joy and laughter fill the air. 

Breathless but smiling, Mary turns to me. "How's Noah's arc?" She surveys my form briefly, checking if my physical state has worsened. It never got better, but I became accustomed to my new weakness. 

"We haven't two of every animal."

"Not yet," she corrects, smoothing Florie's ginger hair. "Give it time." She casts a quick glance over the animals, searching for her brother, and for a moment, worry lines her face. I suppose she'll always have a twinge of fear that her brother will never come back. 

"Cain's in the garden," I answer. 

"Has he brought—" 

"Of course. He can hardly be parted from it."

" _What?_ " Florie interrupts. " _What_ did uncle Cain bring?"

"Not _what_ ," Mary replies, scooping her up. " _Who_. Did you forget already?"

Balancing Florie on her hip, Mary makes her way back to the garden, making idle comments on what I should consider naming the latest rescue (Gabriel if a boy, Alice if a girl), what I ought to do with the surplus wool (give to her so that she can knit a sweater for Basil the goat, he always seems so cold), and have I seen the papers? Yes, I've read that they've taken down the tribute in Battersea to the poor terrier that died on the vivisection table. A horrid thing to do. 

Her chatter, meant more to establish the presence of comradery than actual conversation, ceases when she spots Cain. Her gaze falls to the infant next to him. Gripping his father's still slender, still pale finger, the child toddles in the grass, raising his foot absurdly high before letting it fall, as if he is a prancing horse. The sunlight catches in his dark hair—his Hargreaves hair, I cannot help but bitterly notice, as if family can be distilled into a few repeating characteristics. A hair color, an eye color, the shape of one's jaw. 

And in those moments, I am acutely aware of the unseen scars on my back. The scars that do not fade. 

 "Oscar's been giving me parenting advice," Cain says wryly. "I told him I'd rather ask Jezabel's sheep."

 Mary snorts. "Oscar wouldn't know children from sheep anyhow."

Florie picks her way through the flowers, folding aside daisies and larkspur, to Cain's son. "What's her name?" she asks, clasping her arms behind her back.

" _His_ ," Cain corrects gently. 

Florie frowns. "But _he_ 's got a dress on."

"Florie," Mary begins. "He's too young to be breeched yet."

'What does that mean, mama?"

"That means that he can't wear trousers yet."

The child stomps along in the grass, before falling. One of the newborn lambs wander over to him; with a shriek, he extends a chubby outstretched hand, dimples along his knuckles. I don't want him to hurt the lamb, and I intervene, undoing his feeble grip on the lamb's coat.

A strange hush descends, as if Cain and Mary are suddenly afraid I will dash out the child's brains in a fit, but nothing of the sort occurs. For all her friendliness towards me, Mary has never left Florie alone in my presence, and I doubt Cain will leave his son to my care either. Old habits seldom die. 

"You can pet the lamb," I tell the child, who stares at me with Suzette's—with Augusta's—large blue eyes. "But be gentle with her." Taking the warm hand, I run it over lamb's coat a few times. "Like that. Don't grab." 

 Ever seeking the spotlight, Florie joins in, petting the lamb as well. "Like this," she admonishes the infant, before glancing at me for approval, suddenly hesitant. 

Cain's son watches me, gurgling a little, tilting his head, before snatching at the frame of my glasses, partially yanking them off. The world goes blurry, as Mary untangles us. When the world has returned to its regular state, Cain has placed his son on his lap, rubbing his little shoulders. 

"That was a naughty thing to do," he says lightly, although his admonition does not darken the smile on his lips. A warmth soften his eyes, and a fleeting moment of jealousy burns in me. 

Florie turns to me, eyeing me mischievously, swaying from side to side. "I'm _bored_ ," she whines. "I want a story."

"What sort of story?" Cain asks, still not taking his eyes off his child. I hope he's not seriously hoping to tell his misadventures of cross-dressing to a five-year-old. 

Florie pauses. "Tell me about when you were a girl," she says to me, brightly.

This takes me aback. "A girl?"

"Florie," Mary begins again, patiently. "Your uncle is a boy."

Florie turns to her mother. " _But_ _you said_ , when he was very small, he wore dresses. That makes him a girl."

I sense that I'll have to explain things when she's older. "I'm very much a boy," I say, "but I'll tell you that story when you're older."

"How old," Florie asks, with the air of childish bargaining, her hands on her hips. "I'm five _and a half_ now."

"True," I concede, coughing a little. That seems to be a permanent part of my life now; I was correct about my lungs scarring. "Ask your mother."

Mary flashes me a concerned look, before settling on a sweet smile for Florie as she turns towards her, expectantly. "I'll let you know," Mary says.

Florie groans in frustration, stamping her foot. "Well, then, tell me another story. I'm so terribly _bored_."

"Does she remind you of anyone?" I ask Mary, with a grin.

 Mary laughs a little. "I suppose it runs in the family."

Florie stares at me, clearly expecting her story. The task seems to have fallen to me. I'm not sure when I became the designated storyteller.

Reluctantly, I begin, fumbling for the remnants of a favorite childhood story. "Once, there was—"

 "Properly," Florie interrupts, settling on the grass. Freckles dot her nose. "Like mama does. Once upon a time..."

I frown, annoyed at being corrected. "Once upon a time—" I try again, only to pause, suddenly unsure how to proceed. What was the beginning? _Once upon a time, there was a boy who was born a ghost_. Was Cain the beginning? _Once upon a time, there was a little lamb._ But it didn't begin with Snark, only ended. _Once upon a time, there was a lonely boy made out of glass._ This, as much as it pains me, didn't start with me.  _Once upon a time, there was a man who was not real._ No, that's not still it. Riff was not the beginning. _Once upon a time, there was a man who had a peach-pit for a heart, who was loved but loved no one._ Is Father the beginning? Is it Augusta? Even as I fumble with the story, unable to find the starting point of it all, the lines come to me.

_Once upon a time, there was a man, who was born a boy._

 Yes. I'll begin there. 

 As I assemble the fragments I remember of Cassian's story, softening them for Florie, I wonder why I even bother to tell it. Stories are impermanent, after all. Some survive, but they change in doing so. The ordinary ones, the stories of the ordinary people who live and breathe and die and are forgotten within a few generations—they only fade with each successive generation. Years from now, Florie might tell her daughter about her two uncles and her parents, but who will tell her daughter's daughter? Or will she live out her life blissfully unaware of the curse that her blood has ended?

Cain will have his descendants, his Enoch and Irad, Mehujael, Methusael,  Lamech, and a thousand more. And a hundred years from now, no one will remember how we came to be and feel and breathe. It is both a terrifying and reassuring thought, in that it means that life is both meaningless and meaningful. My bones will return to the soil, everything will return, and everything will be reborn ceaselessly. Life will continue, as it has, rushing towards an unknowable end. 

And yet, looking at Cain's child, I am aware that there will be a future. The curse has ended, morning has come. The curse has ended, because I will it to do so. I will not continue it, nor will Cain, and perhaps that is the value of my life. To survive, we mutilate part of ourselves, but that part never dies, only aches, and it demands an accounting—to be seen and heard and felt. And perhaps, this is another way for that part to be heard: _once upon a time, there was a lonely boy who lived in the forest. He thought he was happy, until his only friend died and he died, and he was reborn as a man with a heart as cold as glass. And that man was very foolish. Because he couldn't bear the present, he lived in the past and in his head—and those are two dangerous places to live._

_And because he hurt so badly inside, he did wicked things to ease that pain. Because he felt powerful for the first time in his life, and power is such a tempting mistress. He killed people, because they were inconvenient, because they had the life he was exiled from, because he couldn't go back to the time when he was loved, and pain is better than nothing. Pain means something._

_Then, he found out that he was loved, only not by the man he wanted such a love from. And he made the first mistake of his new life: he let the man go free, because freedom means something too. It meant that he was not sure if he had enough of pain, because the pain meant that the past had happened, and leaving the past meant leaving his only friend and his old self. But freedom also meant that a new path had emerged, impossible and untreaded, but still there, still inviting._ _And so, unable to decide, he kept himself from wondering if he had been wrong all these years, and if home was not in the arms of the man he could never please, not in a thousand years._

 _The cage door was open, but freedom meant loss. It always does._ I pause in my thoughts. But did he come home? I'm still not sure if this is _home_ , but it is _a_ home.

And perhaps, that is enough. 

"Did you know him?" Florie asks, thoughtfully propping her chin up with her hand. "The man who died, and God gave him the body of a dog."

I nod, my throat suddenly thick after all this time. I found his little, deflated body next to the sheep pen years and years ago. Shot soon after I tried to make the house less of a ghost, as the uneven blood trail and the matted, glistening wound indicated. He must have dragged himself back as his last act, to let me know what had happened, rather than let me agonize over the possibilities. 

 I don't recall much after that, only coming back to my house in a blind, sobbing rage, his body heavy in my arms again. The butler tried to reason with me, tried to pry the body from me for burial. I suppose I looked frightful, with blood and fur over my clothes. In the end, he succeeded only in draping the body in an old sheet and bundling me straight into bed. (I am beginning to suspect that that is his favorite remedy.) He immediately telephoned Cain that he needed to come over, as this was an emergency.    

 And Cain came. 

That's the strange point of it all. Cain came on the next train, and lay next to me in the bed, threading his fingers through my hair. It wasn't that hurt diminished when he arrived, but that it became bearable. Anything, perhaps, is bearable with another. He didn't offer any false consolation, but just waited beside me as I fought the urge to destroy everything in sight. And I knew that he would never leave me, that he intended on keeping his word, and it was such a frightening feeling to know that I was not alone in the world again. That if Cain had made a family for himself, then I have done so as well, and life crept in, as it does. As it has. As it will do.  

Cain lays a warm hand on my wrist. "He was a good man," he says quietly. 

Was he? 

I'm not naive. I know what he did for Delilah, the fresh bodies he brought to my laboratory. No doubt, he ruined more than one life, but he saved mine.

(And when he said goodbye for the last time, when he shed his body and, incorporeal, met me in the hallway, he hummed a little circus ditty to let me know he was going now. That's how I knew to look for the body. How typical. He always leaves abruptly. And I knew he wouldn't be coming back, not now, because he finally could leave me with my family.)

What does that add up to, in the grand algorithm of love and sin? Is that what it means to be God's child? To be heir to the pain and suffering and resplendent joy that is all too much to bear? To live, no matter how briefly, and to know that life will carry on, despite everything? 

Florie and her descendants can forget my story, the way I try to recapture Cassian for myself. What matters is that the story existed no matter how briefly, and because it was told, the past existed, albeit in a different form, neatly divided along narrative lines that do not exist in reality. It is for a not-dissimilar reason that I first told Cain my story, when hatred and despair and the knowledge that I could not carry on made me blind. Because I told him my past, I made it real, even if Father would never acknowledge it, even if Cassandra never let me forget. Another person knew what happened, and even if I couched it within the realm of what I thought was justice, I made it real on my own terms.

It's not that my burden was split in half at that moment; pain likes to remain whole and untouched. It's not that I found part of myself in him. What had haunted me for all those years, what had slowly destroyed my body when I tried to ignore it, had only wanted to be real, even if what it had to say was unspeakable. The part that I had mutilated to survive had persisted, stubbornly, foolishly, dogging my heels, asking me to not recoil from the past, but to see it, to feel it, and to know that it will not _be_ again. That the horror had an end, that it does not persist forever. 

And that perhaps, is enough, simply to fear and feel and _be_.  

Cain's hand travels to mine, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. Against the fence, the jasmine has thrown itself into bloom, white and sweet-smelling—God has returned. 

 Yes, it is enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of Mary's daughter was shamelessly stolen from one of my fav fanfics, Behind Glass Bars. If you haven't read it, consider this a recommendation on what to read next. 
> 
> The epilogue is inspired by one of my favorite quotes by Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse: "The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.”
> 
> This is where I thank all my amazing, thoughtful, kind readers, who have inspired me so much. In no particular order:  
> *Syri, whose amazing Behind Glass Bars definitely inspired the second half of this fanfic. He was an amazing cheerleader for this fic, especially when I started to get frustrated with it.  
> * Kitart, who is incredibly sweet and who kept the grammar of this fic on track.  
> *DAIrinchan, who always makes me smile  
> *hikachu, who asked for this sequel. I hope it lived up to your expectations  
> *Masumi5, who somehow read my mind and anticipated the epilogue, and also made me want to write about Cain as a parent.  
> *haeralis, who made me blush with their sweet comments.  
> *eritia, whose enthusiasm is absolutely lovely and catching.  
> *bktem, who has a beautiful way of wording things.  
> *Christi, whose encouragement early on was very appreciated  
> And you, dear shy reader.  
> Thank you all for reading this far. You have my eternal love and gratitude.


End file.
